Better Strangers
by lestrvnge
Summary: When Bucky goes missing it's up to ex-hydra agent Alice to bring him back alive. Risking it all, she recruits the help of Captain America. But digging up the truth asks more questions than it answers and threatens her alliance with Steve. Told through the eyes of Alice, the reader is asked to keep an open mind and remember "the devil you know is better than a ghost you don't."
1. Chapter 1

-{M}-

Author's note:

There are _no trigger warnings_ for this chapter (but as always there is the possibility that I missed one)

* * *

 _The Present Day- Hotel du Louvre, Paris, France_

Bucky Barnes has gone missing.

Sergeant Barnes has been missing for a while. Captain America himself, Hydra, the government, hell even the media couldn't sniff him out. That was because The Winter Soldier didn't want to be found.

And now I don't know where he is either.

The pavement is slicked with ice. It's not the right kind of weather for snow, it's far too cold. It's cold enough for me to feel the metal pins that run down my spine every time I shiver. I pull my fur coat tighter around me.

My heels clip-clop rhythmically as I walk, I'm trying to keep a steady heartbeat. The sound of voices and music grows louder as the grand hall looms closer. I cross the square in a matter of minutes.

There is a car parked conspicuously across the road. A figure behind the steering wheel cloaked in shadow and the orange glow of a lit cigarette on the passenger side.

I can't tell whose agents they are but I'd suspected someone would be keeping tabs on me. I owe people things. I'd let myself fall off the grid, slip under the radar, disappear like an image in a dream at a time when I _still_ owed people things. These people were not the kind who let you get out of owing them something.

I would have stayed a ghost story but James Barnes made me a promise and I had made him one too. Which is why he wouldn't leave me like this. He promised me he'd stay.

We look out for each other. Although he isn't the most stable person I trust him. He would stay true to his word if the situation was reversed so I am staying true to mine. That is what I _owe_ Sergeant Barnes.

And why I have to find help. I've been out of the world for so long I don't know how to play the game anymore. I need someone I can trust, and who better than America's finest?

Inside the palace, I'm greeted by a waiter in a tux. I exchange my coat for a glass of champagne and a thank you; then I'm pointed in the direction of the buildings main hall.

The ceiling is high and painted with images of Gods and angels. The ballroom floor is swarmed with men and women twirling on the polished wood to the music of an orchestra. On the opposite side is a group of elaborate dinner tables and a dimly lit bar.

I take the long way round, skirting the edge of the dance floor, sipping my champagne.

This is far from a 1940's dance, but I wanted to do something that would hopefully be (at least a little bit) familiar to him. To show that I am a friend.

With the added bonus, of course, that the palace is too highly valued to come under fire and the people in here are collectively worth billions in bonds and property. To kill even one of them would be a shame. At least that is what I'm hoping.

I circle to the bar, which is where I've told him we'll meet. From here I can see the main entrance, staff entrance and the upper balconies which are bathed in a strange pink glow. I can see from here that dark figures move on the balconies above. Moving in between the pools of light cast by the over head lamps. Their presence makes me uneasy, I don't think they're prestigious party guests.

It's not too late to back out. To go home and figure out another way to find James all by myself.

"Can I get you anything, Madame?" a bar tender asks me, with a pleasant and expectant smile.

"No, I'm quite alright, thank you." I smile in return.

She nods politely and moves away to attend to another person. A man; blond, blues eyes and a striking jaw line, staring into an empty tumbler.

Funny, I expected him to be wearing stars and stripes.

He's much taller than I expected. From what James had told me, you would think Steve Rogers was tiny.

Suddenly he looks up, we make eye contact and I smile. He waves away the bar tender and makes his way over.

"Captain Rogers." I purr. "I expected you to be much- smaller."

"Yeah I get that a lot." He chuckles. "You're not exactly what I expected to see either."

"Did you expect to see the Winter Soldier?"

The smiles fades a little, and when he speaks his voice is measured, "Can I get you another, Miss-?"

"My name isn't important right now. And no, thank you."

If this goes against my plan I'd be better off if he didn't know my name. It's a risk even just to show him my face. I have to remind myself that I'm doing this for James, the Winter Soldier needs me. (Although it strikes me now that wherever he is, he probably doesn't think that he needs me).

Rogers gets another drink for himself.

"I thought you couldn't get drunk." I blurt, watching as the bar tender pours another shot of what smells and looks like a very strong whiskey.

He shrugs, "I like the taste."

"No one _likes_ the taste."

Captain Rogers pauses to swallow the golden liquid in one gulp. He places the empty glass down on the bar and waves the bartender away again. No more.

"I didn't expect to see-"(he hesitates,) "to see James… here tonight. _Threatening_ isn't really his style." He says with a hint of chastising in his tone.

"If I didn't threaten, you wouldn't have come."

He chuckles, "What was it that you said now? _I have information about James Buchanan Barnes. If you don't meet me, I'll never tell you where he is._ "

"Words to that effect but it sounded much more serious than that."

"You mean much more menacing?" He fixes me with a stare. "You seem to know a lot about me, miss-?"

"You don't need to know me. Or my name."

Over his shoulder something catches my attention. A man has taken the space that The Captain occupied moments ago. But it's not his sudden presence that alarms me. He is out of place. Although he is wearing a suit, it's not nearly smart enough for the occasion. I watch him, ignoring the questioning look that I can feel radiating from Steve.

The man slips his wallet into his pocket. His jacket moves back a fraction to reveal the butt of a gun tucked into his waist band.

This is a trap and I knew it as soon as I saw that car outside. But this was my chance. They wouldn't try to kill anyone here. It would bring too much attention to them and to whatever organization they work for. I realise that betting on this would be stupid, but desperate times…

I don't have the resources or the gun power to bring Sergeant Barnes back, from God-Knows-Where, alive. Captain Rogers however, could do it alone. Well not quite, he needs the information I have on Barnes but once he has that I am obsolete.

"What is it?" Rogers frowns, turning to follow the direction of my gaze.

"No." I say a little too harshly, "There's someone at the bar, he has a gun."

"This _is_ a trap."

It's not a question but I answer anyway, "I think so."

Fighting the urge to glance in the direction of the man with the gun, I grab the Captain's arm that's resting on the bar. Hopefully in a way that looks flirtatious to any outsiders looking in. I giggle as if Rogers made a joke.

I can't take it. It feels like the man's eyes are boring into my forehead. I chance a fleeting look. He is not even looking this way.

"What's he doing?" Rogers asks in an undertone so that only I can hear.

"He's reading a drinks menu." I say, "No don't look."

Captain Rogers discreetly takes a peek over his shoulder.

The gunman stares straight back over the top of the menu.

"Captain Rogers," I say breezily, attempting to distract him "we have been here more than five minutes and you haven't asked me for a dance."

"Well that's no real way to treat a lady."

He offers his arm and I don't look back at the stranger as Captain Rogers leads me away.

We meander through the chiffon and lace gowns to the centre of the ballroom and join in with a slow song. Swaying to the drawn out sound of violins our hands clasp a little awkwardly.

"Were you followed?" he utters.

"I think so. And you?"

He says with a hint of disdain. "Inevitably."

Steve doesn't look at me. His eyes search the upper floors, and it occurs to me that maybe he is looking for someone.

Suddenly he give a curt nod.

I ask, "You brought back up?"

"Yes." He answers although his eyes still survey the room.

"How many men?"

"Two."

"Two?" I stare at him in disbelief, "Oh, fantastic."

The Captain's attention returns whole-heartedly to me, his voice is accusatory, "You still haven't told me why you're here."

"I told you in the message. I have information about where James is. Or I did. I knew where he was." I say frowning at his jacket collar as I talk. "I'm not explaining this right."

"Start at the beginning. How do you know about him?"

"Know about him? I know him."

"How?" his eyes dart around my face trying to gauge whether I am lying or not.

"We worked together."

"Worked together?" he whispers furiously, "As in you work for Hydra?"

" _Worked_ for. I don't do that anymore. I work for anyone who will pay me." I pause, making a quick calculation. "I'm not a killer, Captain. I'm a hacker. When I worked for Hydra, James sometimes came on missions with me to act as protection. Only once or twice but enough to remember his face."

Pause.

"And where is he now?" Rogers asks.

"That's the thing. When I got out, I met up with James accidentally. I've been living with him for the past year or so, we promised that we'd look out for each other. We're sort of like allies. Anyway, yesterday I go back to the hotel where we're staying. He's not there. That's usually okay, he leaves all the time, goes out for hours on end and then comes back late at night." I pause.

There is a change of song and we step up out tempo to match, and to blend in with the other dancers.

I continue, "Normally he leaves me a note or tells me where he's going. But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because when I got back the room was trashed. It looked like there'd been a struggle. There was upturned furniture and a blood pool the size of me soaked into the carpet."

There is a long pause as Captain Rogers processes this information. He stares intensely at me to the point where I can't keep his eye contact. So I scan the area instead avoiding his gaze.

The gunman at the bar has vanished. There's a buzz in the back of brain, a feeling in my gut that tells me something is about to go wrong. I ignore it. We're in no real danger lost in amongst the other party guests. The only problem we may face is as we are trying to leave.

Finally he says, "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm the only person who has the information you need to find James."

He frowns at me, "You keep calling him James, why?"

"Because that's his name."

"No, everyone that knows him calls him Bucky. But you call him James. Leading me to believe that you don't know him at all. Anyone can look up the name James Buchanan Barnes in a file."

Between the couples curled tightly to each other, I spot another suit-and-tie man with an ear piece, a partner (a woman in a white suit) and probably a gun. They must be the agents Captain Rogers was talking about.

"You're a mercenary. You might not kill people but you're loyal to whoever has the deepest pockets."

"I work for myself. Yes, I work for money, but who doesn't? I can say no to a job that doesn't appeal to me." I shrug.

His eyes narrow, "Right, but you've still given me no real reason to trust you. Why should I believe you?

I don't answer.

"Did you come alone?"

This time I open my mouth to say something but before the words can even form on my lips, he interrupts; saying something that makes my stomach churn.

"Who are the other agents here?"

"Other agents?"

"Yeah, the ones circling the upper floors. They're probably bad news, Hydra maybe, judging by the uniforms. And there are the others, the ones near the exits, the man at the bar and the two watching us from the edge of the dance floor."

I shake my head. "I don't know. I thought the ones watching us were _your_ agents. You said you only brought two."

"Those aren't my men."

"And they aren't mine either."

I follow Steve's eye gaze to the balconies above that snakes around the upper part of walls the whole way round, meeting at the mouth of a red-carpeted staircase. I spot another pair of agents, doing circuits of the upper level, like vultures circling their prey.

"How did you plan on getting out of here tonight?" Steve utters eyes transfixed above.

"The front door?"

I realise how stupid it sounds out loud. Knowingly walking into a trap and thinking that I would be free to walk out of the front door. No back-up plan.

"Captain Rogers?"

He doesn't answer.

"Steve."

We've stopped dancing. He turns his back to me.

" _Then finish it._ "

"What?" he asks, but his attention is elsewhere.

" _Because I'm with you._ "

His body goes rigid.

" _I'm with you_ ," I repeat, although there is no mistaking that Rogers has heard me. "You need a reason to trust me. Well he told me to tell you that and said, if ever I got into trouble and he wasn't there to help, that I should find you. He said that you would be careful not to trust me."

I can see the muscles twitch as he flexes his jaw. I feel like I'm burning up under his gaze.

I push on, "James _said_ you'd need a reason and told me to say _I'm with you_ ,"

 _…_

 _"_ _Till the end of the line."_


	2. Chapter 2

-{M}-

Author's note: Hello to my readers (wow! thank you so much for reading this, it means a lot!) I've put a quick note at the top of the chapter about the location and the timeline, this is something that I'm going to be doing from now on just to make things easier to understand. (I realise of course that NY as in the state is really big so I'm not being super specific but I just want to give the general idea.)

There are _no trigger warnings_ for this chapter (that I can think of anyway!)

* * *

 _6 months ago- The Lucky Star Motel, NY, USA_

I wake up to the sound of the occupants in the room above having very noisy sex. It's not the reason that I'm awake, but for the first few moments of consciousness I'm very confused by it.

The dingy hotel room appears to have been plunged under water. Someone has left the TV on and bluish light pours out of it the casting shadows that dance on the wall as the picture changes and changes and changes.

After a few minutes lying awake and still very confused, I get up. I go over to the fridge in our tiny kitchenette and stare into it, eyeing the contents with disgust. The only food that hasn't gone rotten or sprouted fuzzy green patches or started to smell tangy is a beautifully iced, hardly touched birthday cake. Left over from James' surprise birthday party that I organised. We wore matching party hats with the elastic pulled too tight under our chins. And I enthusiastically sung happy birthday to him all by myself even though I can't carry a tune.

I slam a glob of cake onto a paper plate and take up my position at the rickety little table, my chair facing the door.

The TV is old. It sits in the corner of the room and in the corner of my eye. It's the kind of TV that you sometimes see left on the corners of streets in the not so nice parts of town with a 'Free to a good home' sign taped on top. Or In this case, 'free to a dirt cheap, stinking hotel complex with a pool that has more piss in it than chlorine and a pubic hair on every bed sheet'.

I leave the TV muted.

The man upstairs is called Jack. I know this because he introduced himself to me one day when he offered me a cigarette. I also know this because I hear it repeated several times a night at incredible volume when he brings home yet another girl.

I distract myself with the laptop on the table. It's slow as usual but unusually warm and I check the fan to see if everything is running as it should be. It looks fine, when I flip the screen up the download bar still hovers around the same percentage it did when I went to sleep. 78%. I can't do anything until the files have loaded.

And now I have no distraction.

After a few more awkward moments of _"Jack, oh Jack."_ coming from upstairs I just can't bare it anymore.

I turn off my hearing interface. The hearing in my ears is completely shot, so without it the world falls silent. Just the way I like it. With the TV still pouring gallons of liquid light into the room I feel like I'm floating around in a gigantic fish tank.

I power down. With my hearing aid off it's easier to focus my mind, but it still takes longer to access my Cybernetic Platform. I pull up the news, a mirror image of the TV on the wall although the only thing I see is the news screen. The rest of the world has fallen away into nothingness. No sound or sight of the hotel room.

The news all says the same few things on a loop, a plane has gone missing without a trace, the passengers nowhere to be found. A nightmare.

I search and search but the news is saturated by the plane crash. There is no news of a sighting of the Winter Soldier. He's faded from the public memory. I can't help but worry that one day he'll go out on a long walk and be spotted, captured, executed. Even if he isn't actually _executed_ , putting him in the public eye would essentially be the same thing.

I make my search wider, I move across the borders to other states. Skipping over the same coverage of the same story on news channels that all look the same.

A news segment snags my attention. "Body". It's the only word I pick up from the flow of speech streaming from the on-sight reporters.

My heart trips.

But it's not what I thought it was.

When I see the word "body" or "corpse" in any news article, I assume that somehow it's someone I used to know. I don't know many people in the world anymore, most are dead and the rest are not worth knowing at all.

I worry about James.

I mute the story and turn my attention to social media instead. Searching the tag for the Winter Soldier. A topic only the enthusiasts are still talking about now. Sharing theories and possibilities, which I don't even begin to entertain.

Something pulls me out of my power down.

A light touch on my shoulder.

The news articles snap out of my vision. I crash back into the real world fast enough to make me dizzy.

The Winter Soldier stares back at me unflinching. He taps his ear; then jabs a metal finger at me.

I turn my hearing interface back on.

"How many times have I told you? It's not safe to just power down like that, what if someone came in here?" he says gruffly.

"What else am I supposed to do, while you're out wandering around God knows where, except worry about you?"

"You don't have to worry about me, I'm more than capable" he smiles wryly and then adds "I tried not to wake you when I left."

"It wasn't your fault." I point upwards.

"Again?" Bucky shakes his head, "He looks at least seventy years old. How does he do it?"

"You looking to get some tips, old man?" I mumble retreating to my seat, tucking my feet under me.

"Hilarious." He says and thrusts a brown paper folder under my nose.

I frown, "What's this?"

"I went to the public library." He takes the chair opposite me, helping himself to the remains of a half open bag of pretzels lying next to the laptop.

"The library doesn't open until the morning." I say with a frown.

James looks at me blankly.

"Master assassin and spy, got it. I hope you shut the door on the way out."

Flipping open the folder I find it's full of newspaper clippings. A badly-cropped photo of a man smiles back at me. It looks like a holiday snap, the image is cropped off at shoulder height and he's wearing no shirt and a cat-got-the-cream grin.

"What is this?" I ask again.

James leans forward intently on his elbows and utters, "I remembered something. I remembered a name."

I shuffle through the papers, humouring him. There's maybe two dozen articles here taken from the libraries archives, and a dozen pictures of ordinary people smiling from faded photographs. The oldest dates back to the fifties the newest (the top article) happened just less than two years ago.

They're all articles about mysterious deaths in the surrounding area. Ones that for some reason or another James thinks he had a hand in.

"James, none of these mean anything. There's no real evidence that you killed any of these people." I sigh.

"But I've seen them."

Flipping through them, I read out loud, "Drowning, asphyxia, shooting accidents, you can't just blame yourself for everyone's death in the past fifty years. I mean, why would hydra want you to go and drown a farmer's boy? He's of no significance."

"That we know of." James says. "I remember them. I see their faces in the newspaper and then it's like I can picture them. I can picture myself standing over them, I remember these people, Alice."

He's still leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He looks up at me through his tangled hair that desperately needs cutting but he won't let me touch; says he's not ready for that. There's a shine to his eyes, a belief that this time is different. ' _I'm telling you, Alice. I'm onto something real this time, I can feel it.'_ It's what he always says. _This_ time.

I shake my head, "No, you don't remember these people you just want to. You see their picture in the newspaper and make it fit to what you think you see. James, you're clutching at straws here."

He interrupts me, "But what about this one,"

He tugs the file towards him, rifling through them, eye skipping over the faces and the details.

"No. It's not…" he mumbles to himself, "Ah here, what about this guy. A shooting accident right? But for a while the police thought it was murder. He was a rich lawyer who worked for oil companies and animal testing sites and we're talking back in the sixties so he had a lot of enemies."

"Okay, yes, there's a lot of motive… for _environmental groups_ , you're telling me suddenly Hydra cares about oil spills and test-subject beagles?"

"Well, what about this-" he says rubbing his eyes in frustration, and flicking through the articles again.

Now it's my turn to interrupt.

"James, I've seen enough." I say too harshly, I try to correct it with a concerned smile, "Have you slept at all lately?"

"Don't condescend me."

"But have you?"

"Does it matter? Look," James picks up the file and waves it in my face, "This. I might be onto something here. I'm telling you, Alice, this time feels different."

There it is. This time.

I'm tired and this is the same argument we've had over and over. A carousel of scripted lines and set phrases. Like one wall of our hotel room has been cut away and we're watched by a studio audience as we go over the same scene again and again. The script structure varies but the bottom line is still the same. And it's just not funny anymore.

"James."

"No." he insists, his voice raised. "I know what I've done. I've killed people, Alice. You just don't get it."

"Of course I get it."

The imaginary audience winces.

He stops; looks at me with an apology scrawled all over his face.

I say (before he even has the chance to interject), "We know that you've killed people, it was the nature of the job. When we hack into these files then we'll know more information."

I tap the key of the prehistoric machine, it chugs and spits and flickers back to life. 81%.

"But you have got to stop going to the public library," I continue and even I can hear the exhaustion in my voice, "to find articles of dead people, it's just a distraction that's only going to make you feel more... guilty. Alright?"

He doesn't say anything, just eyes the article on top of the open file with wistful look.

The excitement in his eyes has faded.

I continue, "You can't keep blaming yourself for everything _ever_. You're torturing yourself."

"But I see them," he looks at me with those sad blue eyes, "Every time I close my eyes, I see them."

I reach out to take his hand and comfort him, he moves his metal arm almost instinctively away from my touch. Instead he places his other, flesh and bone, under my own.

"We'll find what you're looking for, James" I say with more certainty than I feel.

The corner of his mouth turns up a little but it's only a half-hearted smile.

"Come on." I stand up. "Normal people sleep. Be normal, for once."

"You and I are not normal." He mutters but lets himself be dragged to the edge of his bed.

He sits obediently on the edge of the sheets while I take off his boots. His eyes are unfocused, staring straight through me to the damp patch on the pink wallpaper behind.

"We look out for each other right?" he mumbles.

I stand again. "Yes, of course we do. Why?"

"Promise?"

"I _already_ promised." I reply, but he seems unsatisfied with this answer so I add, "I promise."

"I promise too."

Something is wrong.

The studio audience inside my head tenses up.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He lays down reluctantly, tired but not sleepy.

He says, "Nothing.", with his eyes closed and I know that he's lying. He will not look at me when he lies.

I just nod.

I turn off the lights, the TV and pull the laptop lid down slightly. Climbing back into my own bed I know that, although I can't see him, James is fighting to keep his eyes closed, not open.

Eventually he'll fall asleep and then a few hours later wake up violently confused and shaking from yet another nightmare. He never tells me what he sees in his night terrors; except the faces of strangers he's collected from newspaper clippings. Sometimes though, whatever it is, it's enough to make him run to the bathroom and retch into the toilet bowl.

As the imaginary audience watches through their fingers or can't bear to look at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note:

This chapter is not perfect, I would love to obsess over it to _make_ it perfect but sadly time is an issue. Anyway, as always any comments, criticisms and pointers are greatly appreciated. And as always thank you for reading.

Trigger warnings: mentions of blood, guns, falling, gore (?), death (?). Reader discretion etc etc.

* * *

Present Day- Hotel du Louvre, Paris, France

The words hang around us, static in the air.

 _Till the end of the line_.

I can't determine what he's going to do next, I can't tell what he's thinking.

Maybe I crossed the line but I wanted to convince him that I know James. And I see now that only those words; 'I'm with you' could convince Steve that this is not a lie.

Captain Rogers turns away from me for a brief moment, hands on hips. Then in one sweeping movement we're back to dancing again, twirling amongst the other party-goers. Our stance in awkward and our movement restrained, we share the same proximity as the other couples but not the intimacy.

"Who are you?" he asks again through gritted teeth.

I wait to answer. Wondering if now it's safe to drop the act.

"My name is Alice." I mumble throwing a furtive glance to the balcony above, "I know Bucky."

There is a pause as we change direction with the rest of the waltzing guests.

"Who do you work for?"

"This can wait. I _will_ tell you, but first you have to listen to me."

His features harden but he doesn't interrupt.

"Bucky Barnes is in danger, he's gone missing and he's- unstable." I talk quickly, "Captain Rogers, there is a man here, a doctor, called Jonah Greggory he was one of the leading scientists at Hydra. He has information and I need it, and if you want to find Bucky you need it too."

"That's why you brought us here, to find him?"

"Bucky and I were trying to track him down before he went missing."

"How did you know this Greggory would be here?"

"He has a smartphone." I shrug, offering Captain Rogers no more explanation. Truthfully, I hacked his phone. I found his calendar, found a date, found a place and by default I found him.

The Captain eyes me with suspicion before throwing his head back to talk into an earpiece I didn't even know he was wearing.

Without thinking I tap into the frequency.

"Natasha." He says eyes still on me, "A man called Doctor Jonah Greggory, we need him, find him."

"Is he coming for a ride with us, Cap?" the woman's voice crackles; a bad connection.

"He is." Captain Rogers answers.

I can almost hear the smirk in Natasha's voice when she says, "Roger that, Rogers."

"What kind of information?" Steve asks.

It takes me a second to realise that he is speaking to me. I'm about to answer but I'm interrupted. A flicker of red light. A tiny dancing dot on the Captain's left ear.

My first thought is _Bucky._

My second thought is _sniper_.

I grab Steve's shirt with both fists and although he is much heavier than me, drag him down. We topple to the ground as the bullet zips past.

There is a sickening slap as metal meets flesh.

A gentlemen in a silver tux clutches at his torn throat. His eyes bulge from their sockets as blood gushes from between his splayed fingers. It soaks into his crisp white shirt and drenches his silk bow tie. A young woman in a blood spattered, lavender dress stares open mouthed as her dance partner gulps for air; pleads for help. He drops to his knees, drops to all fours, drops to his stomach. Dead.

Then the screeching starts.

A flurry of dresses and dancing shoes fly past. The crowd parts all at once, creating a ripple as if a stone has been dropped in a lake.

Steve pulls me to my feet as the next stone drops. The woman hits the floor hard and slides along the polished wood. The crowd shrinks away. I make to follow the guests running towards the huge front doors.

Steve pulls me back. He yells over the howling guests. "Stay away from civilians. _We're_ the target."

I glance again at the woman on the floor. Lifeless eyes and blood red lips. A beautiful yellow gown, a real life Snow White. A real dead body.

Then I'm being tugged towards the stairs away from the exit.

The balconies above open fire.

"Natasha, where are you?" Steve shouts over the riot of bullets and terrified screams.

"Upstairs. I had eyes on the Doctor before the shooting began." Natasha's voice echoes inside my head. "Steve, this was a set up. They knew we were coming."

Steve throws a glare my way as we dart up the stairs. I don't react.

"It doesn't matter now," he says, "Stay on Doctor Greggory. No matter what, he comes with us."

A spray of bullets hits the wall above my head, I throw myself flat on the floor. Steve grabs me under the arms and thrusts me into the corner. The plaster on the wall cracks and shatters, forming a pink sugar dust cloud.

We're sheltered here, but we're also trapped.

On the landing, barrelling towards us are two armed agents, their weapons raised. They take up aim.

"Cap," and unfamiliar voice reverberates in my skull, "On your left."

The shield sings as it flies through the air. The Captain catches it with ease and releases it with a powerful twist of his torso, his arm outstretched. The shield zips straight down the corridor, smacks the agents with a satisfying crunch and ricochets back a heartbeat later.

"Sam!" Cap shouts.

We're on our feet again, dashing down the corridor and up another flight of stairs.

"Sam, can you hear me?" Steve says.

Sam's reply is strained, "I'm a little busy right now."

Across the hall, an agent tips over the banister. He cries out in surprise as he tumbles down, down, crack. His guns goes off as he hits the floor, a chain of bullets released from its chamber. The chandelier above sparks and sways, snaps and plummets the floor below. It shatters, sending a thousand crystals skidding in all directions. Stirring another round of panicked screams from guest hiding amongst the dinner tables.

"My bad." Sam mutters.

I watch in awe as across the hall, a man with metal wings takes flight.

"Hey, Cap, We've got a problem over here. They're targeting civilians now, I think they're trying to draw you out." Sam says.

I'm caught off guard when suddenly Steve shoves me hard into a doorway obscured in shadow.

"Wait here." He orders.

"You're leaving me?" I grab his forearm.

The Captain's head cocks to one side, a muscle in his jaw twitches. "I'll come back for you." And he jumps the barrier, disappearing out of sight.

I'm left alone in the dark doorway with my heartbeat and heaving breaths.

The world is too bright, it's saturated with colour. It's too loud. Even when I close my eyes the red text in my vision seems angrier, more vivid. A reminder for me to slow down, to focus, to breathe.

I open my eyes, just as an agent comes jogging by.

He stops right in front of me, with his back turned. I shrink further into the doorway, pressing my body up to the door. It opens just a fraction and I jump. Then it swings back again with a gentle whoosh of air.

If the noise rouses suspicion in the agent, he doesn't show it.

I observe him in silence. From what I can see he's wearing a uniform but I can't tell whose agent he is. He wears all black with a cap pulled low and a radio on his belt. There are no distinguishing features. Except a briefcase and a gun. Noise from his radio fractures the air. He sets down the shining metal briefcase and opens the latches. Inside it's filled with a tangle of wires, a metal canister and a clock. The components of a bomb. The radio sparks again. And the agent makes a fatal mistake. He swaps the gun for his radio. On the floor, next to the briefcase bomb, he puts down his weapon.

And I take up mine. I slip the knife from its strap in the top of my stocking. The blade facing up in my hand.

He mutters into the radio. I don't catch what he's saying.

One hand over his mouth, the blade across his throat. Swift. Straight through the cartilage. Efficient. He barely has a second to feel surprise before he loses consciousness. No mess and no evidence. Except for a body of course.

He is heavy in my arms as I guide his limp body slowly to the floor. I drag him through the doors behind, to a gallery space, and drop him haphazardly for some poor bastard to find. I wipe the blade, still dripping with blood, on his uniform and close the door on my way out.

The bomb hasn't been set. I scan it quickly and determine that the best course of action is to cut all the wires. I slice them, then stow the blade away in its hiding spot. A secondary scan tells me the bomb is no longer functional.

I tuck the case inside the gallery room, and stare at the agent's lifeless body. For a second I swear I can see him breathing. A second longer tells me no, he really is dead.

Striding down the corridor and away from the scene, I almost run head first into Captain Roger's chest.

"I told you to stay put." He says.

"I got scared." The lie trips off my tongue easily. "I thought you weren't coming back."

"I said I would."

"Well I guess I should have trusted you."

"Do you trust me?" he asks, setting the shield down against the wall.

I stare at it with suspicion, after a short calculation I reply, "About as much as you trust me."

"Well," he says hands on hips, "That'll have to do."

The Captain sweeps my feet from under me.

And launches me off the balcony.

I feel weightless. I picture myself in this moment reaching out to touch the golden ceiling. Seeing myself from the outside, as if I were a part of the mural instead. The world has slowed right down. I am in limbo.

Until my trajectory reaches its crest. And I begin to fall. My weight returns. Gravity's pull is bringing me down to meet the dance floor again. I think maybe I'm screaming, although it's hard to tell. In front of my eyes the red text burns bright. _Warning, warning,_ you're going to die _. Adrenaline levels spiked, fight or flight initiate._

 _Warning, warning._

From amongst the painted Gods, a metal angel swoops down.

And catches me mid-flight.

I feel the air swept out of me.

The angel lands light on his feet. I spill from his arms, and again find that I'm being tugged in a particular direction. This time we're headed for a door.

His wings collapse in on themselves, just as we duck through some double doors, across another echoing gallery and through to the kitchen. The door swinging in our wake. We're followed by the heavy clunk of bullets hitting the door's wooden frame. They're behind us.

The heat in the kitchen is oppressive. The angel sprints across the black and white tiles and I realise I'm relying on him, yanking on my arm, to keep me upright. As long as we're in motion my legs won't fail me.

We hit a wall. The angel crashes into a counter top. A tower of dinner plates cascades to the floor. We push on as the sound of smashing china fills the humid air.

There's shouting from behind but I don't look around to see who or how many are following us. I don't look to see if their guns are raised.

Now I'm in front of the angel, and I can see the exit. I can feel his hand on the small of my back, my own hands clutch fistfuls of my dress. I'm frightened that I'm going to trip in my stilettos.

The emergency exit sign gleams green. Almost there.

Behind us a handgun is emptied, six shots hit the wall around us. Smashing the exit sign as we bolt through the door.

The angel shoves me to one side, I trip and hit the icy asphalt hard.

He slams the emergency exit closed. Heaving a nearby dumpster just far enough to keep the door shut tight. The door rattles as someone fights to get out.

The angel hoists me up from the floor and I elbow him hard under his ribcage. Batting away his outstretched hands that offers to stabilise me.

There's no strength in my legs but I brace my hands against them. I'm thankful that it's cold outside. Behind my eyes, diagnostics scroll through my vision, but I can't focus my eyes on any of it, my brain is too scrambled.

"This way." The metal angel says.

Fighting the urge to heave, I hiss, "I don't like to be man-handled."

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. It wasn't my idea. But that door isn't going to hold forever, we have to go."

 _Ma'am._ Another American. Another soldier. I'd had just about enough of America's finest. But I limp next to him away from the door. His arms are outstretched, as if he's guiding a toddler that's just learnt to walk. I feel my hackles raise.

" _Why_ couldn't we just take _the_ _damn_ stairs?" I spit through gritted teeth, I have to stop to shake off my high heels despite the frost.

He chuckles. A flash of anger washes over me. But, when I look up at him something in his school boy smirk neutralises any venom in my thoughts.

"My name is Sam Wilson," he stretches out a hand this time to offer me a hand shake, "I've been your pilot this evening."

At first I don't take his hand, instead watching the smirk play on his lips. Realising he'd been waiting for an opportunity to use that line for a while.

Sam Wilson wears a pair of outdated aviator goggles that make him look like a dork. But his hands are strong. His voice is void of arrogance but he knows what he is capable of. He knows who he is and who he is not. Sam looks at me with kind eyes and an easy smile. He's no threat to me but something tells me he's not too shy to pull a trigger.

I shake my head and deadpan, "It's been a pleasure flying with you."

Sam lowers his hand, laughing, "Next time, I'll tell Cap to give you a warning."

"I really hope there's no next time."

"Come on, cars this way."

"The car?" I ask as we round the corner to a row of parked vehicles.

"What d'you think we take the metro?"

A redheaded woman in a satin gown leans against the passenger side door of 4x4. She steps forward and I see the outline a holstered gun strapped to her thigh. Her fitted dress is ripped below the knee and like me, she is bare foot and bleeding.

"Where have you been? The cops are on route now." She directs the question at Sam, but her cat eyes flit over me.

I recognise her voice as the woman Captain Rogers was talking to over his comm. She must be Natasha. She looks how her voice sounds; like silk. And now that I have seen her, I recognise her immediately.

Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. Or the Red Russian as I knew her. We had been told all along to watch out for her. We'd been shown pictures of her, been told only the best agents were equipped to deal with her. She was one of SHIELDs best agents. And before that the she belonged to the KGB. It was not her charm that ruined even the best trained agents it was her intelligence. There are very few women with her skill set. Very few _people_ in fact.

"A little late aren't they?" Sam asks.

"So are you, I thought Rogers said he had everything under control."

"He does."

"If he had it under control we'd have been out of here ten minutes ago. Who's this?"

Now it's my turn to speak, "My name is Alice, I invited Captain Rogers here to meet me."

"Are you coming with us?" Natasha asks.

I'm not sure how to answer. So Sam speaks for me, "Yeah, Captain's orders."

"Captain's orders." Natasha repeats after an uncomfortable pause. She smiles at me, but not with her eyes.

There is clang of vibrating metal, and our attention turns to the source unanimously. The flash of a gun being fired and the pinging of wasted bullets ricocheting off the Captain shield. Soon Captain Rogers appears from around the corner. "Get in the car." He says, a short distance away.

Natasha asks again, jerking her head in my direction, "Is she coming too?"

"Don't ask questions, just get in the car." Steve says opening the passenger side door although none of us move to follow him, he pauses, "where's Doctor Greggory?"

"In the trunk." Natasha shrugs, "Steve, is she coming with?"

"You shoved a full-grown man into the trunk of the car, all by yourself?" Sam mutters.

"He was unconscious." She adds.

"Everybody needs to get in the car." The Captain says, climbing in and slamming the door after him. He buckles up as the rest of us just stand and watch.

The Russian says under her breath, "Somebody's in a hurry."

And then we see why. A flock of agents dart out into the mouth of the alley. They take formation. Ready. Aim.

Fire.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note:

This chapter's a little bit dark, (whoops) and comes with a trigger/squick (is that the right word?) warning for vomiting. Of course the content of the chapter is still important so I'll section off the potentially triggering part using a horizontal line (like the one below) at the **start and end** of the trigger so people can still read the chapter whilst avoiding the nasty bits! If this doesn't apply to you obviously just ignore it! maybe I'm being too sensitive but better safe than sorry!

And of course viewer discretion etc etc.

Please comment/critique/give tips and pointers. And thank you for reading!

* * *

 _5 months ago – The Carraway Hotel, NY, USA_

Sleep is relief, and I can't find it tonight. The hotel sign outside is luminous green. Even with the curtains closed I just can't fall asleep with it blaring at me like that. Lying under the sheets looking at the cracking ceiling plaster in the ominous green glow I decide I can't do it. I can't just lie here and wait for sleep. I have to get up. I can't even power down, the light is too distracting. I have to get out of here.

I slip on Bucky's bomber jacket (knowing the car keys are still in the pocket) and stuff my feet into my boots.

Usually Bucky is the one who goes out for hours on end but tonight he falls asleep faster than he ever has before. He doesn't even say good night.

The car engine sputters when I turn the key in the ignition. And after two more attempts and a quick prayer the engine purrs merrily. I drive around until the clock on the dashboard says 2 o'clock and I suddenly remember that we need some more instant coffee mix. So I go to the nearest 24 hour superstore and wander the aisles with my cart, picking out all the things that appeal to me, things that I would never really buy. The things that I would buy if I had a baby boy, a husband, a dog, a garden, a home.

I fill it with tiny cupcakes and baby formula. With kale and carrots and broccoli. And a bottle of fine red wine that me and the husband would share on his night off from work, when the kids were tucked up in bed. I pick up a bag of sugar. I choose between butter and low fat margarine. Selecting the low-fat-marge because it tastes just the same but it is much healthier for the family, they'll never even notice the difference.

The mountain of food grows and the overflowing cart becomes harder to control, the front end swings out and I have to correct it before it crashes into a row of shelves. When it gets heavy enough to take my weight, I find an empty aisle and cruise down it, stood on the bottom bar. Kicking my foot out to keep up my speed as if I were skate boarding.

And then, at the back of the store, in the aisle where I could buy a gun if I really wanted to, I let the cart go. Let it wheel by itself a short distance and crash into the edge of the gun counter. I watch it bounce back slightly on its crooked wheels.

And I walk away.

I pick up some coffee, milk, a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, a pack of paper plates and plastic cups. I pay at the self-checkout and leave the store.

I hit the road and hit it hard. Pushing the rental car's accelerator further until it hits to the floor. I wish I could go faster. I wish I could go as quickly as my heartbeat.

Every time the car reaches the crest of a hill, it takes flight. And there's sickening moment where I feel empty inside before the wheels crash back onto the concrete.

The text in my vision blazes red, _warning, warning; reduce speed now._

Intersection approaching. _In five miles._

 _Three miles. Swerve now to avoid collision._

The text is like a dare. To leave my foot on the accelerator. Don't touch the brake. Don't slow down.

I'm going to crash.

My heart is beating so hard it's like I have a humming bird trapped inside my rib cage.

Approaching intersection in _three…_

 _Two…_

I swerve the car. And stomp on the brake.

The momentum throws me forward and into the steering wheel. The seat belt bites into my chest. I'm pitched back into the seat with a painful crack of my neck.

I lose control. The wheels lock. I slide for what feels like an eternity. The tires screech in protest the whole length of the road. The paper bag tumbles off the passenger seat and into the foot well, contents spilling out.

With a jolt the car finally stops.

I sit there, hands clutching the wheel. Waiting for my humming-bird heart to settle. My breathing comes out ragged but the pull of air in and out of my lungs is satisfying. I feel as if the whole of my rib cage, my lungs, and my heart have been stretched. They ache in the same way muscles do after running for miles.

All I can smell is burnt up rubber.

My neck throbs. It's tender as I massage it with my frostbite-cold fingers.

When my body has returned to normal, when the red warning behind my eyes has stopped flashing I start the car engine. Pausing to pick up the contents of the paper bag and check nothing is broken, then I set off in the direction of the hotel with the luminous green vacancy sign.

It's still blinking at me as I pull into the hotel car park and as I go up the steel stairs and as I go find my key card. Shutting the door offers no relief from the oppressive green glow.

I dump the shopping and key card onto the table in the kitchenette. Through the arc that leads into the bedroom I can see the bathroom door is wide open. The rectangle of yellow light spills out onto the carpet. The only place the green glow cannot touch.

* * *

I know, by the way that the bed covers have been thrown back from Bucky's bed, what I am about to find. But the sound of retching and the slop of liquid into the toilet confirms what I already know.

I pause in the doorway. The Winter Soldier is hunched over the toilet. Clutching the sides of the basin with white a knuckled hand. The smell of vomit hits me all at once, my head spins but I'm so used to it now that I don't even gag.

He is having one of his bad days.

Bucky coughs again and rocks forward on his knees. Without thinking, I step forward and sweep his hair out of the way, it's matted and damp with sweat.

He is empty now. Done for the night, he pushes my hand away.

* * *

I exit the room to fetch him a plastic cup of water and let him collect himself, he takes the cup from me with a grateful smile. The next thing I bring to him is a blanket which I wrap around his shoulders as he sips the water gingerly. He opens up one arm to me, an invitation to stay and sit with him. I'm weary at first, but then I nestles in next to him on the blush pink bath mat.

"Nightmare again?" I ask although I don't need to.

"Something like that." He says draining the last of the water from the cup.

I take it from him, "Want some more?"

"No, just sit with me."

A few silent moments tick by. And I watch Bucky wiggle his left toes inside his socks, his leg outstretched the other tucked under him. His big toe is poking out of a fraying hole at the seam. And I make a note that maybe we should pick up some more socks when we get the chance.

Outside the building the wind picks up and the rain clouds that have been sitting on the horizon all day finally burst. The soft patter of rain hitting the bathrooms tiny window fills the room. The window latch is busted, the noise intensified.

I could sit like this for hours.

The rhythm of Bucky's breathing falters; "Where did you go?" he says in a hushed voice.

"I went to the store." I reply, sitting forward and hugging my knees to my chest.

"Did you get more coffee?"

"Um Hmm."

"Thank you."

After a pause, I say, "I burnt out the tires again."

He doesn't seem at all surprised but asks, "How fast were you going?"

I shrug, staring at the toe-sized hole in his sock. "I don't know, pretty fast. Sometimes I just don't notice that I'm doing it until I have to hit the brakes."

After a short pause he says, "Next time I think we should just _buy_ a car, that way we don't have to take the bus to the next state over and start all over again, all our stuff comes with us."

"Can we start again tomorrow? Move somewhere else." I ask, "I don't like it here. I can't sleep."

He nods and we fall back into comfortable silence.

"Alice." He says, and something in his voice makes me turn to face him, "I've been thinking."

I try to keep my face neutral and reply light, "Uh oh. I hope you didn't strain yourself, old man."

He gives me a tired smile. Propping himself further up against the bath.

"No, listen to me. I've mentioned Steve, right?"

I roll my eyes, "Mentioned him? You bring him up every opportunity you get."

And that's not a lie either or an exaggeration. In a way it's good because it means that he's remembering things. Really remembering things, not just plucking photos from line ups of people in newspapers with the assumption that somehow he hurt them.

A few weeks ago he told me that he thought he was the oldest child of four. But he wasn't sure. He remembers that Steve's mother was called Sarah. And a place called Goldie's where he and Steve used to go boxing, before he was drafted into the war. He remembers the name of a place called Azzano, but he can't remember anything more. Except that, wherever it is, it's important somehow.

And then there's all the stuff he remembers after he woke up from being on ice for seventy years. Every time the Winter Soldier did not hesitate to think about collateral damage. Every time he did more harm than help.

He tells me all this with unfocused eyes while wringing his hands until I think he will tear the skin from the ligaments. But he still won't tell me what he sees in his nightmares.

Sometimes an experience is too much to share. To say it out loud makes it real, because now someone else believes it happened. But if only _you_ know, then you can convince yourself that maybe it was just a fantasy. And who has the authority to tell you you're wrong?

"If ever you're in trouble," he says with a serious tone, "and I'm not there to help you, or you get scared or lonely, find Steve. Tell him I sent you. He's a tough little punk, and he doesn't give out trust freely, but give him a reason he'll have your back until the end."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

"Because I want you to know that you aren't alone in the world. Even if I'm gone."

"What did you do?" I say, "Are you leaving me?"

"Nothing and no, I just worry about you because- I feel like you think you have nobody, and for a long time I know you were alone in the world. But I want you to know that there will always be people out there that can help you."

"But I have you." I say, "I don't need anyone else."

"No. But Steve is like back up."

"Back up?" I repeat.

"Yeah, he's plan C."

"What happened to plan A and B?"

"Well, you're plan A. You have the skills to get your ass out of any situation all by yourself, you survived this long without me. That's why I'm plan B"

I nod. "But if I'm plan A, and you're plan B, then surely I'll never need plan C, so this is pointless."

"But it's always good to have a back-up plan."

"I very rarely even have a plan in the first place, I'm better at improvising. Everything I do is plan A because I just adapt the plan as I go along."

Bucky lets out a monosyllabic laugh, grinning he says "You are so much like him."

"Like Steve?"

"I can't even tell you how many times I pulled him out of situations that he thought he could handle. He was such a punk."

"He probably still is."

"Yeah. Probably."

He sits up then, the movement is sudden; it startles me. He turns to me, crossing his legs so that we're facing each other.

"His mother used to go crazy at him. I used to bring him home with black eyes and bleeding gums, and he made me wait for him while his ma gave him a hiding. I used to hold his hat and sit on the bottom step and wait for her to finish yelling. Then he'd come back with the biggest grin you've ever seen and say 'where to next?' like his bloody nose didn't even matter."

Bucky is staring straight through me again. To the tiles on the wall behind me, but I don't think he sees them at all.

"His ma used to say, ' _thank you, James. If it weren't for you he'd have come back to me in a wooden box by now'._ " He says in a high pitch imitation of a woman's voice.

Now he fixes me with a grin. The corner of his eyes crinkle up, he's giggling at the next part of the story before he's even said it. His smile is infectious and my lips pull in the corner, although I'm not sure what we're laughing at yet.

"And I said, ' _what in a match box?'_ " he cries and slaps his knee like it's the punch line of a joke, "Steve was _pint sized_ back then. But he was so full of rage and he was so righteous about everything _._ He was like a little dog that thinks it's a big dog. Always yapping at people's heels. He'd fight his own shadow if it looked at him cross-eyed."

"That doesn't sound like me at all." I chuckle.

"Improvisation. It's something you're both good at." He says, wiping his eyes, "Steve would always improvise. until I showed up to bail him out."

"You must really miss him." I say.

And almost immediately I wish I hadn't, as the mood in the room deflates. We're back to the bathroom floor, in a dingy hotel room, in a city neither of us has ever visited before.

"Yeah I do." he mutters, "But you know, he's not a pipsqueak anymore, he's a big dog now. But if you need him to dig you out of any kind of shit, he will. He just needs a reason to trust you. He needs a reason to think that helping you out is the right thing to do."

I nod.

"First, tell him that you know me. He's going to be sceptical at first, but then you have to tell him these words exactly, so listen carefully. Okay? Tell him ' _to finish it. Because I'm with you. Til the end of the line.'"_

I mime the words to myself then wait; expecting more. But Bucky doesn't say anything.

"And then what?" I frown.

"That's it. He'll trust you after that."

"Why?"

He ignores my question, "Say it."

"But why will he trust me after that?"

"Just say it, so I know you'll remember it."

I repeat it back to him.

"Good." He says, moving on quickly to add, "Do you want to pack up and skip out of town now?"

I frown, thinking that he would have answered my question about why those words would make Steve listen to me. Confused as to why he wanted me to know them. He says just in case, but that seems strange to me. He's says he's not going anywhere, but the way that he talks makes it seem like he is gearing me up for life without him. I want to ask because I'm afraid. But he'll just shrug it off again.

So instead I say, "Are you okay to drive?"

"Yeah, I squeezed in a couple hours sleep earlier," He nods, adding as a side note, "You can sleep on the way if you want."

"What will we do with the rental car?"

He shrugs, "You used a fake name didn't you?"

"I always do."

"Then we wipe it down and dump it by the side of the road." He says standing up and exiting the tiny bathroom.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: 

trigger warning: violence, blood, kidnapping (?) mentions of drug use and side effects. (viewer discretion etc etc) if you read through and spot any potential triggers let me know.

Please comment/critique/give tips and pointers. Thank you for reading!

* * *

The Present Day- The streets (of), Paris, France

The lights outside the car run together into a blur as we dart down back alleys and narrow streets. My grip on the car door handle is turning my knuckles white. I'm no stranger to exceeding the speed limit but not being the one in control makes me nervous.

I have a machine tick-tick-ticking inside my head; an early warning system which makes me a better driver. Or at least it does in theory. When I speed it's because I am alone and reckless and careless. And if I get hurt it's my own fault.

I keep expecting to see police cars slaloming behind us with wailing sirens and raging lights but the city is like a ghost town. The roads, compared to earlier this evening, are empty. The sidewalks are bare. All the police cars have been called to the shoot-out at the hotel.

"What's the plan?" Sam says from the back seat beside me.

"We need a place to take Doctor Greggory. Somewhere no one will find him." Steve says and his reflection in the overhead mirror tells me he's directing this statement at me.

"I know a place." I say quietly, "but it's easier if I drive."

The Russian does not agree with this. She shares a strained look with the Captain and I get the impression there's a silent dialogue between the two of them. After a heartbeat Captain Rogers nods and Black Widow slows the car down to pull up to the curb.

Agent Romanoff exits the car, slamming the door a little too hard. She comes to my passenger door, yanks it open, and nods for me to get out.

The atmosphere is still cold. And I fight to hold back a shiver, feeling again the metal pins in my spine that seem to freeze my body from the inside.

Sam gets out the car too. I give him a puzzled look. He answers with a quick mock of a salute and calls over the top of the car, "Captains orders." His wings expand in one sharp motion, and the metal angel takes flight.

Inside the car again, I turn to Steve and ask, "Where did Sam go?"

"Back to base." Is the only response I get, followed by a Captain's order of my own, "Drive."

The warehouse looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here. The door is still shut and the padlock remains broken where it hangs.

Captain Rogers steps out of the car to tease the doors open, they screech on rusted hinges. In the light coming from the car headlight; the Captain appears to have a doppelganger, a peter pan shadow that flits about against the steel doors.

I cruise past in the car and pull up short in front of a collection of furniture, set out in a square -a lawn chair, an armchair, and upturned box, a rusted bedframe- an imitation of a room. The car lights illuminate the square. The only other light in the place streams down from the heavens, a gap in the corrugated steel ceiling reveals a patch of sky and stars and lets pigeons come and go as they please. Like the beams, every other metal object is growing an orange patch of decay, like a rash. Infecting the air with the tangy scent of what might be blood mixed with the unmistakable stench of pigeon faeces. Sheltering the ramshackle room within the warehouse from this artillery of shit is yet more corrugated steel sheets held up by scavenged scaffolding poles.

I turn off the engine but leave the lights blazing. Stepping out into the concrete chasm, I can hear the wings of a few frightened, frantic pigeons. They're roosting in the beams above our heads, nervously flitting to higher beams, disturbed by the intrusion.

Steve closes the door to shut out the howling wind. The air has thawed a little. But it still stirs beyond the doors and walls. Perhaps I was wrong before, it might snow yet.

Rogers strides back to me his steps echoing lightly. "How do you want to do this?" He asks when he's reached my side.

"I don't know. I hadn't really thought this far ahead." I say honestly, "I'm a big fan of good cop, bad cop but I also think; 'if you don't tell us what we want to know I'll pull all your teeth out with rusty pliers' works fairly well."

Steve smiles at my attempt to joke with him, "First things first, we need our man. Natasha?"

But the Russian is already cracking open the trunk of the car. Steve hoists the doctor from where he lays and throws him on the shit-stained concrete. The doctor wobbles disorientated by a black satin blindfold; the missing part of Romanoff's dress. The Captain drags the doctor by his shirt collar to the lawn chair.

Black Widow steps forward brandishing a handful of zip ties. It crosses my mind that zip ties are a strange thing to have to hand. But then I realise that they were not intended for Doctor Greggory but instead were intended to be for me. Just in case.

When Greggory has been secured to the lawn chair the three of us step back and watch as he squirms against the ties. Eventually, he realises that it's no use. And resigns himself to controlling his ragged breathing and biting his tongue.

I nod to Steve; 'you start first'. He gives the orders and Black Widow lifts the blindfold. Greggory squints in the beam of the headlights. He tries to focus on me first but I'm positioned just right so that he is too blinded by the pooling light to see me. I am just a silhouette, a shadowy figure, I part the light like a stone parts a river.

Greggory's focus moves instead to Steve. He eyes Captain Rogers with disdain and utters not a word.

"Who do you work for?" Steve asks, no introduction and no threat, just a simple question.

Followed by silence.

"Who do you work for?"

No answer.

Steve opens his mouth to ask again but is interrupted.

"I won't talk to you." Greggory says, spitting a mouthful of blood on the concrete. "I will only talk to her."

Black Widow moves in the corner of my vision, she begins to take off her earrings but does not react to Greggory's request. Instead she gives me a level look and a single sharp nod.

"Me?" I frown, "Why me?"

"You're the one looking for me, and now you've found me." The doctor says blinking in my direction. Even though his nose is swollen, his voice thick with blood and snot, I detect an American twang to his voice (though I can't pinpoint where he's from exactly.) "Come out from the light so I can look at you."

I ignore his request, folding my arms across my chest I ask, "How did you know I was looking for you?"

"The disappearance of my co-workers in 'mysterious circumstances'." He sighs and I get the impression that if his hands were untied he would have air-quoted. "I figured whoever was responsible would want to make me disappear too."

"What mysterious circumstances?" Steve interjects.

The doctor sits back in his chair. He lets out a long, forced breath through his nose, until he chokes and begins to cough violently. The racking coughing fit lasts at least minute, I watch with satisfaction as he winces and tries to regain control of his breathing again. When he sits up again a dribble of blood and mucus slides down from his slack lips. In one swift movement he wipes it on his shoulder, I feel my nose pull upwards at the sight.

"He won't talk to you, Steve. Let her do the talking." The Russian says from her position overseeing the whole scene. She lounges on a moth eaten armchair as if we were in her own living room.

"Tell me what you know about the asset." I begin.

It takes Doctor Greggory a moment longer to catch his breath, before he repeats his request; "Step out from the light, I want to see you."

"The asset." I press.

The doctor's tone matches mine, "Let me see your face."

I shake my head, "Do I have to point out to you that the man to my left is Captain America and the woman back there is Black Widow? Two of Hydra's most hated and feared enemies. You are not in control. Stop asking questions and start talking."

He pauses to consider this, then nods signalling me to continue with my questions. When it comes down to it, agents like Doctor Jonah Greggory act like they'll die for their cause; until someone actually threatens to kill them.

"Sergeant Barnes." The doctor sighs (I feel Captain Rogers flinch.) "The best weapon Hydra's ever made. More efficient than any kind of machine because machines don't understand risk. They understand probability, the probability that they will be unsuccessful or successful. They don't have any motivation outside what they're programmed to do. They don't have the will to make a difficult choice, to take a risk that could save their life. That comes with being human, the will to do something dangerous, despite the odds, in order to survive." The doctor says this all with his eyes fixated on Captain Rogers. Fixated on his flexing jawline, the muscle pulsating under the skin as he grinds his teeth.

Impatience flares in me, "Yes, I know this. Try harder."

"Come out of the light and I'll tell you what else I know." He says, tearing his eyes away from Steve.

And as a reward for answering my question (and because I know it's the only way to get him to answer more) I step forward. Taking a crate with me, I make a point of dragging it across the concrete to create a nauseating scraping sound. I perch on the upturned box at the doctor feet. I sit opposite him like his colleague at a dinner party, eye to eye. But we are not the same, not equal, not anything to each other. Yet the shining in his eyes is a mixture of admiration and recognition. And it makes me sick to my stomach.

"I recognise you." The doctor croons, although no one present needed him to confirm it, his expression is unmistakable. "I've heard about you."

I keep my cool despite falling under the heavy gaze of everyone in the room. But didn't tell Steve that I had worked for Hydra in the past? If anything this is just confirmation that I did not lie, not an exposure of the truth. Even still, I can't bring myself to look at Captain Rogers.

"When they hear that you're alive." Greggory continues.

Steve says, "I think they already know."

I ignore his comment and ask, "What's my name?"

Greggory looks me dead in the eye, and says "Alice."

But he knows the truth. I can see it in the way he grins at me, blood gathering in the upturned corner of his mouth.

They never tell.

Turning quite suddenly to Captain Rogers, Greggory shrugs, "Everything I know about the asset is not very much at all. They only ever told me what I needed to know, I didn't ask questions."

"Everyone knew about the asset." I say.

"I know about him of course. But I didn't create him, that credit belongs to someone else."

"Credit?" Steve quips.

Black Widow chimes in, "You were one of the leading scientists at Hydra."

Greggory shrugs impatiently. "But I wasn't the leading scientist of that project. I had my own assignments."

"Project Spore." I add.

"That's right." He frowns, head tilting to the side. "How do you know about that?"

One word. "Bouchard."

His face falls. I think I've caught him off guard and the idea is delicious.

"Bouchard is dead."

"No."

"He is." Greggory says like a child.

I shake my head, no. "We're good friends."

"That's impossible. He's dead."

"So was I. So was the asset. So was he at one point," I thrust a thumb in Captain Rogers' direction. "Ghosts have a nasty habit of coming back to haunt you."

The doctor doesn't say anything.

Behind me, the armchair creeks, prompting an explosion of frightened flapping from the roosting pigeons. Black Widow sits forward, elbows on knees. "What's Project Spore?"

"You mean SHEILD didn't know?" Greggory says and the light comes back into his eyes, the gloating note returns to his voice. "I wonder what Bouchard told you?"

I cross my arms over my chest. "Only that Hydra needed a way to get people to do what they wanted them to do. So they started to do research into possible mind controlling drugs."

"Not exactly." He smiles with the satisfaction of knowing something I don't. "Hydra had some difficulty getting some of their NV subjects to cooperate."

"NV?" Steve asks.

"Non-volunteer." Black Widow and I say at exactly the same time.

I share a brief glance with Agent Romanoff, while the doctor continues to talk. "Of course, they had the system of wiping the subjects' memories and making them a blank slate again. But that's not the same thing as getting someone to comply. So they hired me."

"How does it work?" The Russian asks (apparently Greggory has captured her attention.)

"Well mind control doesn't actually exist, not without causing some serious chemical imbalances or other damage to the body that just can't be sustained." He says with pride, "But after some research we found a solution. It's possible to make a drug that instead of allowing outright mind control, it enabled us to put the subject in a state where they were highly suggestible."

"Highly suggestible?" I repeat.

"Yes, it's remarkably like manipulating a child. You tell them that what they're doing is the right thing, tell them they're doing a good job."

"Tell them that their work is shaping the century." I breathe bitterly.

"And they believe you," Greggory leans forward. "Everyone wants to do the right thing, right? So they do it, no questions asked."

Captain Rogers's shifts behind me; paces back towards the car. He says with his back turned to us, "Right, because threatening to kill them has no influence at all."

"Well, it's certainly a contributing factor, but the drug allowed us to have the kind of complete control we were after." Greggory shrugs.

In a way, his reveling in how 'oh so clever he is' is a good thing. Now that we have him started I don't know where this will lead or where it will stop or what we'll learn. As of right now the information he is giving us is useful. So I hold onto the burning desire to slap his smug, slimy face. Let him give me a reason first.

"What are the side effects?" Black Widow says.

"Nothing too serious, when you're actually on the drugs the side effects are mild. But when you come down from them there are some nasty withdrawal symptoms."

"What kind of withdrawal symptoms?" I ask my voice is calm, level.

"On the test subjects we saw, withdrawal meant anxiety which led to increased heart rate and breathing rate, sweating. Some experienced nausea, abdominal cramps, muscle twitching, insomnia; but that's not the interesting part. Most drugs are out of your system in a matter of days but with this one it was months before we saw any side effects and almost a year before the subjects were no longer dependent on it."

"What if some were to just stop taking it suddenly." I ask.

"That I don't know." He says, "I imagine they would be very unstable, for a very long time."

"Bucky." Steve breathes. He pushes his trembling fists onto the hood of the car, leaning against it with all his weight. The metal under his knuckles sinks but he doesn't let up, he watches the hood of the car mold round his fingers. For one aching moment, Captain America's mask slips and all his hate and hurt pours out. Steve Rogers puts his duty on a shelf, pushes his morals aside, forfeits all reason, and buries his good name in a box with a lock.

I watch this happen with curiosity and when the moment has passed the facade of the perfect soldier has not returned. "How can you not know the side effects of withdrawal when someone suddenly quits, didn't you research it?" I ask.

"No, we never tried it." Doctor Greggory eyes Steve's back with caution and the same hungry curiosity I feel.

"Why not?" I ask keeping us on topic (but noting the way in which Greggory's glare turn venomous).

"Because we didn't think we would have to take anyone off it cold turkey. We thought that with it, we had complete control, no one would even try to rebel so no one would be suddenly cut off from the supply. We were wrong."

"That's just sloppy work." I deadpan, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Steve." The Russians voice comes out as a low warning tone. "Steve, walk away."

To my left, Steve stands poised, I hadn't even noticed him come up beside me. He shakes off the warning and leers over Doctor Greggory like a tidal wave waiting to pull him under.

"Do you want to know why we needed the drug in the first place?" Greggory sneers seemingly unafraid. "Do you want to know why I was employed to make the toughest soldier crack? Do you want to know who made it all necessary?"

"Don't listen to him Steve." Romanoff says.

But Greggory silences her as he continues to jeer, "Someone who just couldn't let the past go? No matter how many times they wiped it out and started over again? Do you want to know, Captain Rogers?"

"Shut up." Steve hisses through gritted teeth.

"Do you want to know how Sergeant Barnes called for you? Asked after you. Told them time and time again, ' _he's coming to find me. He's coming to_ save _me._ '"

For the second time this evening Steve's entire body goes rigid. A seething storm swirls behind his eyes.

"He took a long, long time to break." The doctor croons. "Eventually, he stopped believing you would come. The light died from his eyes and they thought they'd made a breakthrough. But still, no matter what they did to him, he would not obey."

At this rate Steve will have no teeth left; he'll grind through the bone, straight to the root canals and raw nerves.

Like an early warning system, the pigeons in the rafters above bristle. There's an uproar of feathers and cawing as a flock of them take a preemptive exit out of the warehouse. Away from the encroaching danger.

"By then, the trial was finished. I had the solution to Sergeant Barnes' disobedience and the task of giving him the drug. When I saw him, The Winter Soldier," Greggory spits, drawing out each word, making each syllable a punch, "his eyes were swollen shut and his lip split straight down the centre. He didn't look like a soldier. He was pathetic. And I thought; _'I've wasted my time on this piece of shit'._ "

I see red in my vision. The red text scrolling behind my eyes; _warning, warning. Adrenaline levels spiked. Danger perceived. Recommended action_ -. I shake my head, ignoring the screaming text. I'm transfixed on the scene in front of me.

Greggory cackles (a throaty gurgling laugh hindered by the blood seeping down his throat, threatening to choke him.) "But as I was going to set him up with an IV, Bucky Barnes reached out, he grabbed my arm and whispered ' _is that you, Stevie? Is that-_ "

But we don't hear the end of his sentence. Instead, the crunch of Steve's fist colliding with the doctor's cheekbone rings out like a bell that's been struck. Doctor Greggory's chair tips backwards, the force of the punch sending him skidding across the concrete. He slips beyond the reach of the streaming headlights. Steve follows him, without hesitation, into the collecting darkness.

The clamour stirs the remaining pigeons above. They cry out and flee through the gaping mouth in the ceiling. Leaving behind a blizzard of stray grey feathers floating down, down, down in the static evening air.

The Captain hoists the chair and the doctor upright again. Setting the bloodied, laughing Greggory to face him. A blacken blood clot slips down doctor Greggory's chin. The blood flow in his mangled nose is no longer stemmed by the clot. The red runs down in rivulets. It covers his teeth, stains them; makes his smile murderous.

Steve seizes the back of the doctor's chair. He holds it at arm's length, relaying punch after punch.

I should stop this. But I don't.

If this is what Greggory wants then who am I to stop him from being beaten to death? I could stop this. But I won't.

Although allowing the doctor to live long enough to feel every single hairline fracture in that fat, smug face of his would bring me some satisfaction. Perhaps he'll bleed to death anyway.

The decision is made for me. The Russian catches Steve's arm as he goes to land another blow on Greggory's slack jaw. He falters.

"Steve, that's enough." She orders.

Greggory laughs, spittle flying from his broken, swollen, oozing mouth. "Go on. Finish what you started."

Steve makes to bring down his fist once again.

"Let him live." I say. My word is final. "He's still useful to us."

Steve pulls his fist up short, the doctor flinches, blinking up at the Captain with swollen eyes. The energy drains from Steve's body. The intent is gone. And he walks away; to the car where he resumes his earlier position resting his raw knuckles on the cool metal hood. The mask finally returns to his face, the weight redoubles on his shoulders and he sighs under the pressure.

Black Widow takes Greggory's face roughly in her hands to inspect the damage. The doctor smiles up at her dreamily, his lip is split straight down the centre. His nose is obliterated. It's just a mauve, fleshy lump on his face.

I think it's an improvement.

"We should go." Romanoff lets go of the doctor's mauled face. "Sam will be wondering where we are."

With his breathing now in check, Steve examines the welt blooming on one of his knuckles. He flexes the hand and winces at the tenderness of his broken skin. He doesn't look at me when he asks, "Are you coming with us? Or can you get by on your own?"

I glance towards the Russian, but she is seemingly preoccupied.

Of course I can get by on my own. But it's now a question of do I want to? Though I have to ask why the Captain wants me to join them. Is it because he is actually concerned that I can't function on my own? Or is it because I am the best lead he has when it comes to finding Bucky?

Either way, I tell him, "We're not done yet. There's somewhere else we need to check out while we still have the chance."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note:

The chapter is short and sweet compared to the last! I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading. As always comments, critiques and reviews are welcome and wanted.

(Also, if you haven't already seen it, please check out _'La Pie' by Claude Monet_ it's kinda important for the chapter)

* * *

2 Months ago – The Musee d'Orsay, Paris, France

The Winter Soldier stands at ease in front of a painting of a winter scene. In the painting soft gold sunlight glistens and shadows play on a snow covered landscape and a magpie sits alone on a gate. _'La pie'_ the placard next to it reads, ' _Claude Monet.'_

I hang back. Observing not just the painting but Bucky too. He stares at it with hungry, searching eyes and a small, sad smile. I cross the distance between us, so that we stand shoulder to shoulder and search with him. Our expressions; both the same.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Bucky whispers, finally.

I nod in agreement then tease, "I thought you didn't like art galleries, old man?"

He smiles, "I said I was no artist. I said I didn't understand art the same way I understand science."

"Has this changed your mind?"

He doesn't answer.

It's early morning, the gallery has been open less than an hour and we're alone. Minutes tick by, we stand side by side staring at the painting. Drinking it in.

"We should do this forever." I say and my voice is tiny.

"What? Look at this painting?"

"No. We should find the most beautiful painting in every city we can and visit your science museums wherever they are."

"You mean run. Forever?" he says.

"Yeah, you've been out of the game so long, you have a lot of catching up to do. And, you know, we never did go to Kennedy Space Centre like you wanted." I say, jabbing him under the ribs playfully, " This is my fourth stop of choice on 'Alice and Bucky's Bucket List of Things They Want to See before They Inevitably Kick the Bucket'. Bucky has only had three stops, so it's his turn next. "What's your next stop?"

"Well, the space centre is still on the list." Bucky says, nudging me back with his elbow. "But we can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't run forever." He shrugs, "Sooner or later we have to stop."

The conversation lulls as I digest this. I'm conscious that soon the gallery will be full of tourists taking photos of themselves in front of the artwork with selfie sticks they bought online. It'll fill up with people looking lost, reading from tour books and listening to guided tours through headphones. On holiday from their nine to five lives, and I will appear, to them, to be just the same.

In a way I am. In a way we're all on the run. They are running from their petty lives at home in a house where the neighbours are too noisy or the electricity bill is mounting. From there jobs where their boss wants to promote them and they're not sure they can handle it just yet. A thousand trivial same-old-same-olds in a thousand different lives that briefly converge in this spot in front of this painting of a winter scene.

"Bucky," I ask, "Who are we running from? And where do we stop?"

He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, "We're running from the past and we stop when we have too."

"But we're not running from the past because we keep trying to find out what happened to us. And we're not running to anywhere in particular because we have no goal except to find out what happened to us. So we're just… running."

No answer.

"Bucky?"

He continues to chew on his lips; his eyebrows knit together. It's some time before I get a response, "Yes?"

"I need to know what's going on here, because we said we're a team. I need to understand what the plan is, because I need to figure out if I fit into it or not."

"Of course you fit into the plan. The end point, as of right now, is that we reunite with Steve."

I frown, "But if the plan is to reunite you with Steve, why don't we just go to him now?"

"Because I'm not ready for that."

"The same way that you're not ready to cut your hair?" I say teasingly.

"Something like that."

We fall back to looking at the painting, but somehow I'm not _seeing_ it anymore.

"But if you love him, I don't understand." I ask.

He stares at me dumbfounded. "I didn't…I never said anything about- I never said… _love_."

"You didn't have to."

Outside the room, I imagine the grand old clock hanging above the gallery entrance with enormous roman numerals and heavy hands. I see the minute hand heave up the clock face. I imagine the crowd of people forming a line to get in. Our time is limited here, it's growing smaller and smaller. The peace we've found in this quiet gallery is diminishing with every heaving turn of the clock outside that's the size of a giant's pocket watch.

"Can I be honest with you?" Bucky utters. Not waiting for an answer, in a rush to say the next thing before he loses the courage to say it, "I don't feel like I'm ready to see him again because I don't feel like I know myself anymore."

He waits for me to respond to this. When I don't, he continues anyway.

"I just need to know myself; before I start to get to know him again. And I need to figure out what I want for once."

I ask, "Are you scared?"

A pause. And then he nods.

"Bucky?"

"Alice?" he mimics my tone perfectly. Making it a two syllable word; _'Al-ice'._ Up-down, like a song.

"What if what you want is to say screw it? And you don't go back. You just decide to be a coffee barista or a science museum tour guide."

"Then that's what I'll do." He smiles.

"Do you think you could do that?" I ask, "After everything? Do you think you could just forget it all and try to be normal?"

Bucky shakes his head, "Somehow I think _this_ will be a problem." He waves a metal palm in my direction and flexes his shining fingers.

"What would you be if you could do anything?"

"Coffee barista sounds good. A dog walker maybe? I don't know."

"I guess it doesn't matter," I say with a shrug, "You'll go back to him."

"Do you think?"

I nod, "The universe has done a pretty good job of bringing the both of you back together so far, why would it stop now?"

My gaze returns to the painting. The yellow-pink sunlight on the snow. The appearance of light and ice all at once, in one moment, captured in one winter scene.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note:

As always comments, critiques and reviews are welcome and wanted. Also if you spot any mistakes or potential triggers let me know. Thank you.

* * *

Present Day- Montmartre, Paris, France.

Steve's knuckles bloom red. The skin is broken, raw and inflamed. Although he doesn't bleed from them, the moist welts shine. His hands clutch the steering wheel with unnecessary force, except the third and fourth fingers on his left which he leaves limp. I suspect he's sustained a fracture.

"You should get that cleaned up." I say.

Steve takes his eyes off the road to examine the damage; "I'm fine. It'll heal in no time."

I drop the subject immediately, feeling the awkwardness descend again on us. In the back, the Russian clicks away on a smartphone; biting the inside of her cheek. Every now and then Steve checks his mirror but not for cars. He waits expectantly for her to say what she's been chewing on from the moment we left the warehouse.

"I'm sorry." Steve sighs, glancing once again to the reflection of the back seat.

Black Widow raises a single eye brow still tapping the smartphones screen, "You shouldn't have lost it like that Steve."

Steve's gaze returns to the road, his nostrils flare.

"I mean, what were you thinking?" Black Widow continues, "You were playing right into his hands."

"I _wasn't_ thinking."

"No you weren't." she lowers the smartphone, the screen's glow, casts white light onto her features from below, making her face a storm; a nightmare. "Greggory lied, Steve. He knew all he needed to do was mention Barnes' name to make you believe him. And it looks like he was right."

"Nat, he called me Stevie. There are only two people who would have- _should_ \- have known that. And one of them is me." There it is again, that exposed nerve ending, the hitch in his breath.

"It's like I don't even know you anymore. You've been acting so crazy over this whole situation." She says, her volume beginning to rise. "What? Throwing people off buildings is not really your style but beating someone to death is?"

Suddenly Steve slams both fists on the steering wheel. "And what was I supposed to do? Sit around and let him gloat about torturing Bucky?" He yells. "I'm not doing it anymore, Nat. We tried doing this SHIELD's way, and now we're trying it _my_ way."

"Right, teaming up with a has-been Hydra agent. Who, by the way, we know nothing about except that she threatens people to get what she wants, is that _your_ way Rogers? Is it really? Because it's not what I signed up for." She shouts back.

"And what did you sign up for?"

"I signed up-" but she can't find the right words to diffuse the situation. "I don't know. But I sure as hell didn't sign up for this."

"No, tell me, what _did_ you sign up for Romanoff? Because I thought that this was your specialty? You're a spy, this is your God damn job description."

"Oh, come on, this is different and you know it is."

"Why? Because you're not working for SHIELD anymore? Because you're not selling people out to the KGB anymore? Suddenly you're not okay with doing the dirty work because you aren't doing it for corrupt organisations anymore?"

"Yes, I'm a spy that is my job description. But it's _my_ job description. This is different because I'm not okay with _you_ going dark-side on me. You scared me back there, Steve. And you know that I don't exactly scare easily."

Silence.

I don't know what to say. There is nothing for me to say. Although I think maybe this argument is my fault in some way or another.

Steve's grip on the steering wheel slackens his whole body appears to deflate as he lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry Nat. It's just, Bucky made me a promise. And I made one to him too." Steve says, "This isn't just about finding him anymore, this about saving him."

The Russian is about to respond but she's cut off by a police car coming to meet us in a narrow street lined with vehicles. We duck into a gap between a sports car and a moped as the silent police car creeps past Steve's window. By fear, or more likely habit, I slide down the leather seat and turn my chin away. I watch the car disappear in the side mirror and only when it's gone do I sit up straight again. My heart hammering my ribcage.

The Captain asks, glancing over his shoulder as we pull out into the road again, "Are we nearly there?" For the first time I wonder what power he has now that we're far from American soil and SHIELD belongs to the past.

"We're close, take the next right." I reply but Steve cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

I follow his gaze to the corner of a street where the snow is piled high against the sloping curb. A figure stands in the doorway of a closed café with its shutters pulled down tight. The figure drops a clump of burning ash, a lit cigarette, onto the steps where he stands. He emerges from the cloaked doorway arch, stomping on the cigarette in an exaggerated manner like an actor on a stage. There is something deliberate about him, his movements and presence appear calculated. Was he waiting for us? How did he know we would be _here_?

He glides to the edge of the curb, hangs there like he's going to step out in front of the car to cause a collision, watching the car arch around the corner. His shrouded eyes it seems are boring into me. Like he knows me.

Though I don't know him.

I watch the stranger, like the police car, growing smaller and smaller in the mirror. He remains motionless on the edge of the curb.

"What the hell just happened?" Black Widow asks.

"I have no idea." Steve says, and after a pause adds "Let's keep moving."

We cross the courtyard of the old building quickly. It might be the early hours of the morning but lights stream from open windows above, aggressive rap music thumps like a heartbeat from an unknown source. No one sees us approach the main door.

"Watch where you're putting your hands and feet." I say, nodding to some cheap outdoor furniture, needles discarded under and atop the garden table.

Inside, the main reception desk is empty. Behind the counter are a few glossy magazines, a nail file and blood red polish. Without a word, I vault the counter top, catching the stack of magazines as they slip from the desk. Disappearing through a stiff door with its frosted window pane into an office overflowing with paper files in enormous filing cabinets. The keys are hung on haphazard hooks along the back wall. Most hooks are empty, others are smothered in dust. I pocket the key for room 19 and leave everything else in its usual state of disarray.

When I step out from the office again, Steve stands with hands on hips and head bent towards Agent Romanoff. When they see me, the conversation is cut off mid-sentence.

I nod, an indication that they should follow me.

"This is an interesting choice of hotel." Romanoff says.

"No police tape?" Steve asks.

"Bad for business to have the cops knocking on doors. A lot of drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes are based here, but the owner turns a blind eye to it. Bad money is still money." I murmur over my shoulder.

Down the corridor where the doors all look the same. Here, the rap music is muffled by walls and doors and carpets, and I remember with a sharp pang of sadness how on the first night here I couldn't sleep because of the noise. And how Bucky had stormed down the corridor, banged on the door and threatened some skinny stoner kid to turn down the god damn music. One flash of a metal fist and the music was clicked off, no force necessary. And not a single reminder followed. Apparently the kid had figured out the room we'd occupied was now empty.

Room 19. I slide the key into the lock but I'm stopped by Steve's hand on my wrist.

"I go first." He says.

I wonder if this is because he doesn't trust me or because he thinks someone might still be in there.

"Wait here." He orders and enters the room.

Black Widow follows him. There's a few moments of emptiness, and then some mutterings from inside the room. Finally, Captain Rogers says, "You can come in now."

Steve stands over a blood stain on the carpet, it looks like someone has been furiously scrubbing at it since I was last here. There's a strong smell of bleach throughout the whole room. The furniture has been put back in place, or pushed aside in the cleaning process, making the blood stain the epicentre and the furniture the rippling water.

The few belongings Bucky and I have between us have been packed into cardboard boxes. I begin to paw through them. The trash bags it seems are full of clothes, whilst the boxes include bulky items, such as my laptop. Poor old thing.

"The hotel owners must have cleared it out, there's nothing here that could point us to where someone might have taken Barnes." The Russian says stepping out from the bathroom.

I shake Bucky's bomber jacket free from one of the bags and pull is on, my hand instinctively going to the top pocket where he always keeps the rental car keys. This time though, there is no rental car, just a few used metro tickets and a hard candy I recognise as one from Bouchard's stash.

"Steve, what is it?" Romanoff asks.

Steve stands in the window, peaking past the curtains into the courtyard below. His eyebrows pull together, eyes fixed on a single point.

"The stranger." Steve says, "He followed us."

"What's he doing?" I ask, although I go to the window to see for myself. Down in the courtyard the stranger stands, like a soldier at ease, observing us with a bored expression.

"Natasha, see if you can get a good look at our tag-along." Steve mutters, his gaze unwavering.

She nods curtly leaving the room with a swish of her tattered satin dress. There's a moment of silence in her absence in which we watch from the window and the sentry stares back at us.

"He won't come up." I breathe and somehow I'm sure of this. "He's not here to hurt us, I think he's here to threaten us. Someone wants us to know that they're watching us."

"The question is, who is someone?" Steve frowns.

We're interrupted.

In the corner of the room, something clatters to life.

The printer shakes the entire chest of draws as it stirs itself from sleep. I move to it. Shifting a stack of paper so that I can see the control panel. A rainbow ribbon of colour scrolls across the screen, telling me that something is loading, loading…

"What does it say?" Steve asks.

Loaded.

"It needs paper," I reply. Gathering the sheets together into what resembles a neat pile, I slot the paper into place and press okay. A moment's pause and I think for a second that the printer's stopped working. But then it chews up the first leaf of paper hungrily and begins to print.

"What is it?" Steve asks as the first page is spat out, the ink still wet.

At first glance it looks like a page of advertisements, but then as more pages slide home into the tray I see that a news article is forming. Soon, the last piece of paper is chewed up and spat out, the article is complete. I take the whole wedge of paper holding it up under the dim halogen bulb.

The first page of the article is plastered with a photograph. An image of the paparazzi hounding a man in a pinstriped suit. A tattered baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. In the foreground a police officer attempts to shield him from the camera with an outstretched hand. A blurred palm facing the lens, so that we view the man in the pinstriped suit though the unfocused fingers of the police woman.

I hand the freshly inked paper to Steve. "It's a newspaper article."

He reads the headline out loud. "'MUSA Millionaire Boss Walks from Court a Free Man."

He skim reads the first few lines, his eyebrows pulling tighter as his eyes flit across the page. "Antoine Caillier. Know him?"

"Caillier?"

"That's what it says." He asks, flipping through the pages. "You ever work for him?"

"I don't think so," I frown, "But the name sounds familiar."

We're silent for a moment as Steve flips back to the first page and stares at the picture for some time. "Can't say I've ever heard of him either."

Agent Romanoff returns, she pauses in in the doorway, blocking out the hallway light, her shadow is cast long and low on the blood stained carpet. She asks, "Heard of who?"

"I thought you were watching our shadow?" Steve says.

"I was." She jerks her chin at the window, "but he left. He'll be long gone now. But there's something strange about him. We shouldn't stay here any longer than we have to."

"No we shouldn't." Steve replies, handing over the article he adds, "Ever come across someone called Antoine Caillier?"

Black Widow takes the file, shaking her head before she's even looked at the photograph. I get the feeling she's not the kind of person who would ever forget a name. Even still, her eyes dart across the page and linger on the picture a touch longer than necessary. "He's never come up on my radar. Do you think Barnes left you this?" her cat eyes fall on me.

"I don't know." Which is not a lie.

Was a clue likely? I think back to all the vague statements Bucky made about not being around and about finding Steve if I ever found myself alone. I thought that meant he'd done something…stupid, but perhaps he knew that someone was following us. Perhaps he had an inkling that someone had bad intentions. And, what, didn't tell me to keep me safe?

Or maybe he was just printing something out when suddenly he was ambushed. He was always going to the library in the dead of night; bringing back files full of faces in photos he thought he recognised. Maybe he's stopped looking in the library and turned his attention to online archives. Trawled through them all morning the day he went missing, thought he'd found something of interest, but was interrupted.

Or he might have even pulled the supply of paper from the machine intentionally so the printing would be delayed until someone refilled it, until I did. To leave me a clue perhaps. But if that was true, why would he leave me a vague message? I've never even heard of Antoine Caillier. Why lead me on a treasure hunt? With what aim?

It just seems...unlikely. Unlike him.

Although being rescued is much easier when someone is looking for you in the right place. And by that I mean, if someone was hunting _us_ and only got hold of Bucky, then that means I was left abandoned, but free to find Steve. Becoming the messenger and means of bringing the two back together. So was this part of a plan? A grand gesture to Steve?

Again, it's unlikely. But still possible.

That's the problem. There are a thousand possibilities and without being the one inside Bucky's head, how could I possibly know? He's certainly clever enough to leave a clue. But just because he can doesn't mean he would.

It doesn't makes sense.

"Well, he obviously wants us to look at this." Steve says, taking the article from the Russian's outstretched hand and pocketing it. "So we will. Until then we go home and get some rest."

Home. A lovely thought. My home is lost where Bucky is, and where I'm not.

I can't stay here.

"You should go." I say, mulling over my options.

"You're right, we shouldn't stay here any longer." Steve nods, picking up a box full of belongings. "Make sure you have everything you need, don't leave anything behind."

"I'll be fine on my own." I shrug.

Steve's voice is matter of fact confirming what I already thought, "You can't stay here."

"Don't worry about… I can… I don't-" I start to say, but something in Steve's expression tells me that what's he's said is final. So instead I say, "Let me find my boots first, these heels are killing me."

We leave with the intention of never coming back, thank God. But I can't help thinking as I turn out the light that no one has mentioned the blood stain on the carpet.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes:

Comments and critiques please. Trigger warnings: drowning, burning. (uuumm it's quite and intense chapter.) if you spot anymore trigger warning let me know.

* * *

5 months ago- Ashurst Hotel, NY, USA

I've been watching the bar on the computer screen crawl agonisingly to the finish line for what feels like hours. Loading, loading, loading, stop for another ten or twenty minutes. Loading, loading, lo-.

Oh for God's Sake. I swear it just went backwards, I must be losing my mind.

"No change?" Bucky says, clearing away the cartons of Chinese food from the coffee table.

"None." I reply with a sigh.

"Here," Bucky says, tossing me something in a red foil packet.

A fortune cookie. I crack it open and chew on the sugary shell whilst unfurling the little slip of paper from inside.

"' _Trust your intuition to lead you down the right path.'_ " I read out loud. "What's yours say?"

" _All your hard work will soon pay off."_ Bucky reads, staring at it thoughtfully.

"That's slightly ominous." I say under my breath. Wiggling the cursor on the computer screen as if it might coax the file to download faster. I let out another frustrated sigh; which Bucky imitates perfectly.

With a smile he says, "There's no way to make it go faster, Alice. Just relax for a minute, watch TV or take a nap. It's still going to be here when you wake up."

"That's the problem, it's still going to be _here_ , on 37% when I wake up."

"So sleep it off. You know, my ma used to say that sleep was like time travel." He smiles, "But you're not listening to me, are you?"

I'm furiously wiggling the cursor again. I wave a hand in his direction. "You were telling me some wise words from Mama Barnes."

"Yeah, she said that sleep was like time travel, because when I was little I could never stay awake on long journeys. We used to get on the train to visit family who lived out of town, and we'd leave the station, I'd fall asleep and when I woke up we were at the other station getting ready to get off the train. I never really understood that travelling miles was a long journey, I never realised it took a long time because I was always asleep. And being asleep seems like minutes." He says, but I'm only half listening.

I get up from my seat and can feel Bucky's eyes on my back as I go to the bedside table and begin riffling through the draws. I feel a slight twitch of guilt for ignoring what he said, something about a train journey and a family member who couldn't sleep, but those fortune cookies have given me an idea on how to speed things up.

Direct download.

It's risky. My technology is getting old. But anything is quicker than my prehistoric laptop. Sometimes I wonder why I don't get rid of the dinosaur and buy a new computer. Maybe one of those shiny silver ones with soft silent keys that's slim enough to fit under a door. It's not like I don't have the money. But the fact that my computer is old is a testament to just how reliable it is. Plus, I'm sentimental about it, and like Bucky when it comes to his long hair, I'm just not ready to get rid of it. Of course, I'll never tell him that.

"What are you looking for?" Bucky asks.

"It's like a black cable, it's about this long," I show him with my fingers, "and it plugs into the computer."

"Try the rucksack, I don't think I unpacked it when we got here." He frowns, "Why do you need it?"

"I'm going to direct download."

"To what?"

"I'm going to download what's on the computer to myself."

"Wait you can do that?"

"In theory." I say and throw the cable on top of the keyboard, resuming my position at the screen again. The bar hovers around 38% but all my earlier frustration has dissipated. I have a solution.

Bucky asks, "What do you mean 'in theory?' Haven't you done this before?"

"You've seen me do it." I shrug, "On those missions, remember?"

He shakes his head.

"Sure you do." Although I'm beginning to doubt that he has seen me do it. There's a strong possibility that the man I see when I picture the last time I direct downloaded it not Bucky at all. But I seem to think that it was him. "It's perfectly safe." Iadd. And really, what's the worst that could happen? I start to roll up the sleeve of my shirt to reveal the hatch on my inner part of my upper left arm.

This is where the tangle of wires that run parallel to my spine come together. Tucked away behind one neat panel of buttons and ports. Hidden behind a latch (that looks remarkably like the door that hides the batteries on a child's light up toy) is an orange glowing bulb that tells me my the panel is functional. The little lights, push buttons, switches and various ports make this look like a control panel, but it's not. No, this is my Manual Input-Port or MIP. It's how I direct download.

I open it.

And take one last look at Bucky as I plug in one end of the cable into the computer. He scowls at the thin black wire and then fixes me with a tentative stare.

"It'll be fine." I murmur, and plug the other end of the cable into my port.

I power down almost immediately. The colour drains from the room. Bucky's frowning face, the yellowing wallpaper, the cramped kitchenette fade until all I can see is the computer screen plastered across my Cyber Platform. From here the steps are easy.

Restart download now. 0%.

A heartbeat.

2%, 3%, 5%.

Now we're getting somewhere.

10%.

Sweat breaks on my forehead.

40%. 50.

55%.

Wait.

70%. 80%.

Shit. What have I done?

Fire. I feel like I'm on fire. No not on fire. The fire burns hot inside me, it's in my veins. It engulfs my spine. My blood is petrol, my nerves are the ignition. I am fire. There's a spark behind my retina. A flash of white, the Platform vanishes from my sight and I can see Bucky. Close up, touching my face. He's talking but I c-c-c- can't hear him.

No. It's not Bucky. It's someone else. His face has been replaced with the image of someone else. Someone I recognise but I can't name.

It's on the tip of my tongue. The edge of my mind.

Before I can remember the Platform is back.

83%.

No, it's Bucky again. He's going to c-c-cut the c-connection. I try to say stop, I try to tell him no, I'll keep going but I c-can't make my lips move, my entire face feels sunken on the left side. I try to move my arms, but I'm paralysed.

89%.

 _Warning, warning: system overheating. To avoid damage shut down now._

No. Postpone shut down. If I shut down now or lose c-connection I won't finish the download.

94%.

Not long now. But I can see as the room comes crashing back into my vision Bucky is going for the c-c-cable. I try to speak again, but only low grunting noise escapes my slack lips.

"Its okay, Alice." Bucky says, reaching for the cable.

96%.

I try to jerk away from his hand. But I've lost all c-command of my body.

97%.

Wait. Wait. It's almost done.

He tugs on the cable. A burst of white static escapes from the panel, but the connection remains unbroken.

99%

"Fuck." He jumps back clutching his wrist. Now the stench of singed flesh assaults my nose.

100%.

 _Download complete._

 _Warning, warning: System overheating. Recommend shut down immediately._

I'm sorry Bucky.

 _Agent 1182. Prepare for reboot in 3…2…1._

I open my eyes to silent world.

My head. Oh my God, my head. My spine. What have I done?

That smell. Singed flesh and dying skin, it's so _familiar_ to me.

I can't hear anything. My Hearing Interface isn't functioning yet, the diagnostics scroll across the screen but I can't focus on the words, they move too fast, but I know that it's not running because everything is horribly, horribly quiet.

Where is Bucky?

My muscles feel tightly coiled underneath my skin. Still sat in the chair, I'm no longer paralysed, but it hurts to move, so I don't, I can't. It's too much. I hurt all over.

I try talking instead. My mouth tastes of metal. I feel the vibrations in my throat, although I can't hear it as I call out for Bucky. And when he is not at my side immediately I try again.

He's here. Within sight and reach. Holding my face between a cool metal hand and the other. He smells like antiseptic and overcooked meat. He cradles my head so softly, directing my line of sight to his face. His lips move, it takes a great deal of concentration and blinking to realise he's saying my name.

I can't hear him. I can't hear anything.

My sight dims. A wave of dizziness consumes me, I'm fading out again. I think at this moment I could happily close my eyes and drift off to sleep. A drowsy feeling washes over me, like stepping into hot bathwater and slipping under the surface; eyes closed. But Bucky pulls my head above the water. Pushing my sweat-tangled hair away, coaxing me to look at him so he can scrutinize my face.

I just can't hear him, it unsettles me. The interface isn't working, but why? Maybe it's stopped. Maybe it just won't come back on again. Ever.

Trying to move again proves successful this time. I bring a trembling hand up to meet Bucky's bandaged wrist, using his arm to stabilise my hand I tap my ear then shake my head; 'I can't hear you.' but I have to stop as pain shudders up my spine to the very ends of my fingers, my toes. Through my whole body. Light bursts behind my eyes like a flashbulb on a camera.

 _Hearing Interface: error occurred. Reboot in 3…2…1._

I gasp.

There's a high pitch ringing sound followed by Bucky's voice, low and soothing. "It's alright, Alice. I've got you."

"I can hear you…now." I say, my voice scratching on its way out. A dull ache begins to spread at the base of my skull.

"Hey," he says with a smile. "Welcome back to the land of the living. How're you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Yeah, you look like it too."

Despite the pain, I laugh. "You're not looking so hot either, old man. How's the hand?"

"Never mind that, can I get you anything?"

"Water." I murmur.

He disappears from sight.

On the table the laptop hums quietly, the screen is black. The cable has been disconnected from it, now strewn across the keyboard. The other end is still attached to my arm. I yank it out of the port, holding up the melted end to Bucky as he returns with the glass of water. He takes the cable in exchange for the glass, I knock it back like it's something stronger.

"Jesus Christ, Alice." Bucky shakes his head tossing the ruined cable onto the table. He resumes his seat opposite me, "Look at you're arm."

The port at the point of connection between it and the cable has warped all the way around, the bronze lip glints through the soot that's singed the rest of the panel that's been singed black. I feel no pain there. The orange light that usually signals that the port is operational has died. My hands feel clammy as I tap the burnt black panel, hoping that the light will flicker on. Nothing. Not a spark.

"It's melted." Bucky says dumbly.

"I don't think it's working anymore." I reply tapping the panel with a furious finger.

"It's melted." Bucky says again, this time adding, "How are you still alive?"

I ignore his question, instead, running diagnostics behind my eyes. Key word: _damage_.

 _Searching…searching… Scans detected 134 problems. Power down to fix now._

Fix now, fix now. Oh my God, please don't let this be as bad as it sounds.

 _128 problems fixed. Four systems: compromised. Two systems: non-functional._

 _Hearing Interface: compromised._

 _Manual Input Port: non-functional._

 _Reboot System: compromised._

 _Early Warning System: non-functional._

 _Memory Integrity: compromised._

 _Cloaking Software: compromised._

It's bad, it's very bad…

"Oh God," I say putting my head in my hands. "Oh God, oh my God, I messed up Bucky."

"What's wrong?"

I reel of the list of problems the diagnostics pulled up, looking at him through my fingers.

Bucky sits back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. He runs his metal hand through his hair, squeezing a fistful of it at the back of his head. "You should have just been patient."

"It was going to take ages on the laptop I just wanted to speed things up."

He shakes his head, "We would have got there eventually, and now we have to fix this."

"I'm sorry." I say.

He rubs the scruff on his chin with bandaged knuckles, sighs and says "It's alright. We just need to figure out what to do next. Without the technology...I mean, obviously we can't go back to Hydra."

"My cloaking software is compromised, they might already know where I am." I lower my eyes to the table, finding the two slips of paper from inside the fortune cookies. _'Trust your intuition to lead you down the right path.'_ My intuition must be having an off day.

"They think you're dead." Bucky shrugs.

"Doesn't matter, if I show up on their radar after all this time they're going to come looking for me, even if they think it's just to pick up my body." I cringe at the thought, "I'm so sorry Bucky, I really did fuck up this time. Maybe it would be better if we split up. Then at least they won't catch both of us."

He shakes his head, "Not an option. I said we need a solution and that's not it."

"Bucky-"

"I said no."

I don't argue. But my insides twist. If he left, no one would get hurt except me. And going back to them wouldn't be so bad if it meant he could walk free. But he's too loyal and I'm in too deep. He can't leave, I care too much. I'm so stupid.

And slow.

"Wait," he frowns, "Why would Hydra install a cloaking device against themselves?"

"They wouldn't, it's a software that I had installed by…" I say, my sentence trailing off, I'm staring past Bucky into the mirror behind him. I watch mirror me as my reflection's eyes light up with delight. I slap myself hard on the forehead, making Bucky jump. "I'm an idiot."

He reaches for my hand clutching my forehead, whispering, "Hey, no you're not. You just made a mistake."

"No, you don't understand," I say, "If he installed cloaking software then surely he can fix it."

Bucky blinks. "You're right, I don't understand. Who can fix it?" he asks.

"And maybe he can fix everything else too?"

"Who?" he repeats.

"Glass Jaw." I say, triumphantly.

Beat.

"You lost me." Bucky shakes his head.

"Glass Jaw, that's his nickname he's ex-hydra like us. Used to be an engineer for them until they decided to pull funding on his project after SHIELD figured out they were up to no good." I explain, "Hydra lost sight of him after he dodged their attempts to silence him when they moved everything underground."

"Oh-kay," he says with scepticism "Do you think he can fix you?" I flinch, _"fix you."_ A throwaway reminder that I am as much machine as I am human. "Sorry," Bucky says eyes to the floor and I that know he means it.

I shrug, "I think he might be able to fix the cloaking software at the very least."

"Okay, do you know where to find him?"

"How's your French?"

"Terrible. I'm better at Russian." He says wryly, "Why is he in Canada or something?"

"Paris," I reply. "France."


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's note_ :

Sorry I haven't uploaded for a while, I had some plot issues that I had to figure out. It's still not perfect but I'm working on it. Please comment, etc. and as always thank you for reading.

* * *

Present Day- SHEILD Safe House, Paris, France

There's a knock at my door. I've been awake for a while but I've just been sitting on the edge of my bed, with only one sock on because I can't find the other and don't have the energy to look for it. It's about ten o'clock in the morning, I can hear them downstairs clattering around, washing dishes under running water and laughing together.

The knocking comes again. Followed by Sam's muffled voice; "Alice, can you come to the door? I brought you breakfast."

I crack open the door a fraction to a smiling Sam, his hands around a tea tray carrying a feast of pastries and cereal and a steaming mug of sugary liquid.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

I nod, opening the door wider for him. He steps into the room, placing the breakfast tray down in front of the mirror on the vanity table. I can see my slumped figure reflected back. I look like hell.

"You were so tired yesterday," he says, "that we let you sleep a little bit longer. Did you sleep well?"

I nod.

"We're you warm enough? It's cold in here. There are extra blankets in the closet if you need any, I can get one down for you if you want."

"I'm fine," I say, and then as an afterthought add; "Thank you."

"It's no problem." He looks at the floor as if searching for something else to say, rubbing his hands together trying to warm them. Then, fixing me with those deep brown eyes, he says brightly, "I wasn't sure if you drink tea or coffee, or how you like it, so I brought hot cocoa instead. It seemed like a safe option."

"It all looks great, Sam. The flower is a nice touch."

"You like it?" Sam says, twisting the daisy to face me, "there's a whole bunch of them just growing in pots on the fire escape."

We stand in awkward silence admiring the orange daisy. All the while I can feel Sam debating whether or not to ask a question that's lingering in the air like a third entity in the space between us. "I also wanted to ask you," he sits on the end of my unmade bed (and I take this a cue to grab a hot slice of toast and nibble on it politely.) "I'm going out to see Greggory this morning, I wondered if you wanted to go. He's the second person on the breakfast run."

"Is Steve going?" I ask.

"No, we decided it would be better if I dealt with the Doc for now."

It seems like a sensible idea.

"Alice, I know I don't know you very well, so you don't have to answer. But are you okay?"

This is a very good question. There's a terrible twisted knot of worry in the pit of my stomach because although I try not to, I keep thinking about Bucky and where he is and what's happening to him now. And how I feel like an imposter taking his place. Eating his breakfast, sleeping in his bed, sharing _their_ space when he should be. "I'm doing okay."

He nods but I know that he doesn't believe me and I didn't expect him to. He says "You don't have to be afraid of Steve. He's one of the good guys."

This surprises me.

"He's just not been himself lately. He's under a lot of pressure and he just lost his temper yesterday, that's all." Sam continues, "It's this whole missing Bucky situation, he doesn't know where to look or what to expect. Every lead we've had so far has run cold, he's getting desperate."

I remain silent. And also a little confused. Not himself lately? This is almost a strange as Black Widow saying that Steve was going dark side. Of course I don't know him as well as they do, but it seems to me that he's not _going_ dark side. He has a dark side, had one all along, and now all that darkness is just leaking out slowly. People can't be good all of the time because humans are innately selfish. And why should Steve be any different to the rest of us just because he's clad in stars and stripes? At some point you have to stop being selfless because it gets you nothing. You have to stop being selfless because it gets you killed.

Sam stands up suddenly, mutters something about letting me eat my breakfast before it goes cold, turning back to me when he reaches the door he asks, "Are you coming with me today or are you staying here?"

"I think I'll stay." I reply.

"I'll see you later then."

"I'll be here." I say as he disappears from the door. I listen to him gallop down the two flights of stairs and into the kitchen.

Now that he's mentioned it, the room does seem cold. I scoff the cooling pastries, shower to warm up a little and dress quickly. I gather up the breakfast dishes, leaving the orange daisy in its jam jar on the window sill, and carry the tray downstairs to the kitchen.

"Morning." Steve says before draining the last drop of coffee from a mug he's holding. He takes the tray from my hands and begins to dump the plates into the sink brimming with soap suds. "Sleep well?"

I nod as the Russian enters the room carrying a laptop which she sets down on the table, along with some notebooks and the article we found last night. "Morning." She says without looking at me.

I mutter a good morning and take up station next to Steve, drying the dishes as he washes them. He smiles at me in a way that makes me think that he's apologising. I can't decide what it is exactly he's sorry for. I return the smile.

The blisters on his knuckles are almost faded to nothing now, although some redness still remains.

Black Widow is tapping away on the keys of the laptop. Her phone rings. It buzzes on the slick counter top, screen facing down, juddering towards the edge. She grabs it in one swift motion before it reaches the point where it might fall. "Hey Sam. What's up?" her eyebrows pull together. "He's dead?"

Sam is waiting for us outside the warehouse, warming his gloved hands by tucking them under his arms. He nods at us in greeting.

"What happened?" Steve asks as we draw near.

Sam motions us to follow him inside, "When I saw him slumped in the chair like that I thought he was still sleeping. Then I got out of the car and, I don't know, something felt different, like there was something missing from the room." He says over his shoulder "There was no presence in here, you know?"

As we pass the parked car, Greggory's figure comes into view, still bound to the lawn chair. Sam's right, at first it appears that Greggory is sleeping. His chin rested on his chest and feet stretched out in front. But then as we move closer, the red splotches become visible; blood spatter.

"I was talking to him and getting no answer, I knew something was wrong." Sam concludes.

"Did you touch him or try and shake him awake?" Black Widow asks.

"No, I saw the bullet hole, there was no way he could have survived it. Shaking wouldn't have done anything to wake him. I'm a lot of things but I'm no miracle worker." He shrugs, "I called you guys as soon as I realised."

"He looks like he's been moved." Romanoff says, only it's more to herself than to any of us.

Even from close up the doctor still appears to be in deep sleep, it's not until I crouch down that I see what Sam is talking about. Above his swollen right eye socket is a hole about the size of a penny. It's not exactly the only injury on Greggory's face but it's without a doubt the one that killed him.

The Russian examines the back of the doctor's head with a critical eye. "Entry wound is at the back of the head."

"A through and through." I say in agreement.

"Hand gun." She theorises. "Not placed on the skin, but close enough."

I stand up. "Where's the bullet?"

We scan the scene silently. The Russian says, "I don't see one. But they could have taken the bullets with them?"

"Why would they do that?"

She replies with another question, "Why shoot him in the _back_ of the head? It seems kind of impersonal."

"Maybe they were just taking out the trash?" Sam deadpans.

But something else is bothering me, "Why move him?"

Black Widow shrugs, "Sending us a message, maybe?"

"Like what? A bullet to the head seems like a clear enough message to me." I shake my head. "Maybe they weren't professionals?"

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "A robbery maybe? They could have been checking his pockets."

I reach a hand up and check the inside pocket of Greggory's jacket. Trying to make it so that my hand doesn't touch the sticky blood that's soaked into his crisp white shirt. I announce; "His pockets are empty."

"Whoever did this clearly wants us to know that they're following us." Black Widow says, "The guy yesterday at the hotel and now this, shooting Greggory in an isolated location on the edges of town that _we_ didn't even know about." She gesture to herself, Sam and Steve, "It's not likely someone just stumbled upon him and decided to rob and kill him rather than free him."

"What do you think, Cap?" Sam asks and all conscious eyes fall on Steve.

He's standing over Greggory in much the same way that he did yesterday, though this time there is no intent to harm him. Actually it appears all the Captain can do now is pity the bloodied corpse. "Like Natasha said, they want us to know that they're watching us." He says to Greggory's lifeless eyes, "but who are _they_? We've been assuming that it's Hydra all along but what if it's not?"

"Who else could it be?" Sam asks.

Instantly a name comes to me, _'Bouchard'_. Although I don't dare say it. They don't know about him and I think it's best that they don't. This is his territory even if he doesn't actually own it, he uses it. I have no idea how many times his men have been here in the past. Could they have stumbled upon Greggory and just like Sam said 'taken out the trash'?

"The article we told you about, that Bucky left for us, is about a man called Antoine Caillier." Steve says, looking up at the three of us suddenly.

"Right," Sam nods, "and something called MUSA industries."

"Let's find out what that is." Steve says with a last look at Greggory. "What are we going to do with him?"

"I'll call in a favour." Black Widow sighs, taking out her phone. She holds it to her ear and as it rings she adds, "I'm getting tired of using my favours on you, Rogers."

"Want me to stay?" Sam asks.

Before the person on the other end of the phone picks up, the Russian says, "You should go. You in particular, Steve. We don't need anyone asking questions. My name's already in the dirt, yours doesn't have to be."


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note:

Wow sorry i haven't uploaded anything for a while, sometimes uploading my work is really daunting and it takes me a while to convince myself to do it. Also I've been busy (and blah blah blah excuses) I'm sorry. More chapters on the way. Please comment and stuff and remember that I write this in my spare time so plot issues, spelling issues, characterization etc i'm just gonna apologize for it now. Thank you!

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3 months ago - The RER, Paris, France

Bucky keeps dozing off. His gloved hands are clasped together resting lightly on his stomach and his head is tucked into the folds of his woolly scarf. We're riding the metro and then the RER to the last stop in the outskirts of Paris. If he does fall asleep then I'll have to wake him and suffer the guilt of knowing that I disturbed his few stolen minutes of peace.

The lights flicker as the train slinks between stations, grinding to halt at each platform to pick up a few stray passengers. It's late in the evening, or rather it's early the morning and elsewhere in the train I can hear the doors clattering open and slamming shut again before we jolt off; onwards through the serpentine tunnels. As we careen through, the wheels spark on the tracks and the wind whips and whistles throughout the car. My attention is divided. Both between Bucky and a moth which dances in the very corner of my eye, its papery wings tap-tap-tapping on the scratched glass window.

The train takes a sharp turn too fast. The cart judders and Bucky is thrown back into consciousness. Now alert, he glances out the window. The train slows down as we approach the next platform station.

"Is this our stop?" he says.

I shake my head.

"Did I fall asleep?" he asks pushing the beanie hat up from his brow and rubbing his tired blue eyes.

"Nearly." I smile.

"How long do you think it'll take to get there?"

"Another ten minutes on the train at least."

He sits up straight. "I'd better try and stay awake then."

The moth's movements have slowed. It rests, two-three-four, then it batters the window with its fragile wings.

Bucky opens his mouth like he's about to say something, then closes it as he reconsiders his question. Finally he asks, "Why do they call him Glass Jaw?"

I shrug, "I don't know the truth. But there are lots of stories."

"Like what?"

"Someone who worked for him once told me that one day Glass was working in his lab at a secret Hydra base. But there was a snitch who sold them out or something like that, I can't really remember, I've heard so many different stories."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

I ignore it. "Anyway, SHIELD comes crashing in and Glass is captured by them. But he's loyal to Hydra so in the middle of an interrogation he pops a cyanide pill that he had hiding in his teeth instead of giving up any secrets." My voice is a low whisper like the voice of someone telling a ghost story, "Only the pill is a dud. It doesn't kill him, but it melts off half of his face."

Bucky seems unimpressed by the tale. He shakes his head, "But that doesn't explain why he's called Glass Jaw."

"Because he has a prosthetic jaw bone now." I say, "Or the cyanide pill hidden in his teeth was made of glass, I don't know."

He laughs, "Do you believe it?"

"Of course I don't believe it, but half his face is missing, people talk and they make up stories. Some stories are better than others."

"Does he have a real name?"

"Brian Bouchard."

The shadows flit across Bucky's face, as the train pulls up to another station with white tiled walls and an empty platform. He taps my shin with the toe of his boot to get my attention again, "How do you know him anyway?"

"He found me. I got away from Hydra and I realised that I didn't know anybody, he offered me a deal and I took it. He can be very persuasive."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted me to kill him." I say, eyeing the moth in the window that's ceased all frantic flapping. "And in return he killed me. He programmed my cloaking software in exchange for making him disappear."

"How did you do it? Kill him, I mean."

"I hacked the right files and forged the right documents, then Brian Bouchard was no more. Of course that's not a hundred percent guarantee that Hydra would never find him, but it's as good as." And after a moment's pause I add, "That's three things the three of us have in common."

Bucky cocks his head to one side.

"We're all supposed to be dead. We all belonged to Hydra and we're all not entirely ourselves." I say tapping my temple with my index finger.

We've almost reached our destination and despite the odds Bucky is still awake. We still have some time before we meet Bouchard or whoever it is he's sent to meet us there when we get off the train.

"Bucky," I begin, "You should know that Glass- that Brian, is not all _there_."

He looks up from the loose thread he was picking at on the fingertip of his left hand glove. His forehead creasing under the I-heart-Paris beanie we bought on route, Bucky asks "What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's seen things in his lifetime and, well, he's a little strange." I say, "He can be a little bit hard to handle."

Bucky leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Is he okay to operate on you?"

"He's fine, he's just a little bit eccentric, sometimes it puts people off."

He nods but the frown on his brow doesn't let up.

"He's going to want to see it, you know." I say gesturing to his metal arm. It's hidden by his gloves but he still looks down at it.

"Was that part of the deal?" He asks gruffly.

"I had to tell him that you'd be coming too, otherwise he wouldn't have agreed to fix me." I shake my head. "So no, it wasn't part of the deal. But I know Glass and he wouldn't let us visit him at all unless he had something to gain from it. And he was pretty quick to change his mind when I told him that you would be coming with me."

Bucky doesn't reply to this. Instead he scratches the stubble on his chin with his knuckles the way he always does. The changing light throws shadows on his face as the tunnel peels back to reveal another station; the last one and also our stop.

We exit onto the platform (apparently the last people on the train) and begin to make our way out, up two flights of stairs and into the open air again. From here, we walk east.

This is the outskirts. But it appears most of the buildings here, mainly warehouses, are still in use. We almost miss the one we're looking for. Tucked away behind still-used buildings, guarded by a chain link fence and sprawling drive of overgrown weeds. Though the gate is swung wide open; an invitation.

Bucky takes the hunting knife from his belt as we share a silent nod. I step behind him and he throws open the door with his metal arm.

The warehouse reeks of pigeon shit.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note:

Well look at that two chapter uploads in one day? You're welcome. Again plot holes etc I'm sorry i write this in my spare time and essentially I'm writing and editing a first draft as i go. So, thank you for your patience etc. You're the best!

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The Present day- The SHEILD Safe house, Paris, France

"Hey Sam, have you seen my laptop?" I call, bouncing down the stairs for a second time. I've looked everywhere at least twice now. "I can't find it anywhere; I thought I left it on the counter."

Sam shares an uncertain glance with the Russian. She peers at him over the top of a steaming white mug of creamy coffee which she blows into to cool it down. She sighs at Sam, turning to me sharply she says, "Steve went out and took it with him."

"He took _my_ laptop." I frown, "On purpose?"

Sam shrugs, turning away from me to stir the contents of a pot simmering on top of the stove.

I shake my head, already pulling on my boots, "Well, did he say where he went?"

"No." Natasha says, "He's been gone a while."

"Where are you going?" Sam asks, as if it's not obvious, "Dinner's almost ready."

I slip on a Bucky's jacket and twist my scarf around my neck. "Where does it look like I'm going? I'm going to get my laptop back."

Natasha puts the coffee down on the side, she arches an eyebrow in askance. "Why? Something on there that you don't want us to see?"

I know that she's just intentionally digging at me to gauge my reactions, but the comment annoys me. The constant testing and pushing is filing my nerves into barbs.

"Yes, my extensive collection of tentacle porn is something which Steve's innocent little eyes must be protected from at all costs." I say, my eye contact with the Russian never wavering.

With that I exit the house and jog down the front steps a few at a time. It's while I'm outside that I realise I don't actually know where to look. So I set off in any direction, wandering until I remember the tracker I put on my laptop as a precaution.

I join a line of people waiting for a bus stop, pull out my phone and power down. Hidden in plain sight. I have a hundred tricks like this. Little things I do to go undetected.

It doesn't take me long to find the signal. And it's not long until I've tracked it down. It's coming from a tiny cramped Parisian café - the kind they don't put in the brochure, but the type of establishment Paris is famous for. All spindly chairs and table legs crushed into the limited space, making it hard for anyone to tiptoe through the maze of wooden furniture. Rich coffees in enormous white cups spill hot steam into the atmosphere, making the cafe feel even more cramped.

As I approach from across the street I can see Steve at a table in the window. My laptop is open in front of him, but he stares straight through the screen to the empty chair opposite him. The bell above the door rings as I enter but there's no reaction from Steve. It's like he's in a dream world, somewhere I can't reach him. Almost like he's powered down just like me.

"Hey stranger." I say. "Did you hack into my account, Rogers? I'm impressed."

Only now does Steve look up. He rubs the back of his neck, lowering his eyes to the keyboard "No, I guessed Bucky's password."

"Ah, well unfortunately Bucky's account isn't very interesting, I think most of his internet searches are of pop culture references that he doesn't understand. My account is where all the good stuff is." I take a seat opposite him, pushing aside the open MUSA file, the article with Caillier's picture glaring up at me from the table top, "May I?"

Steve slides over the laptop and I punch in my password. My desktop loads slowly- a picture of 'La Pie' that I ripped straight from the internet is set as my background. I turn the laptop back to Steve nodding to him; _'go ahead.'_

He seems disinterested in the computer now. Instead he scrutinizes my face as the waitress comes over. I order a black coffee (with the little French that I know) and Steve waves her away politely. I watch her leave and when I turn back to Steve he's leaning back in his chair, his searching eyes feel heavy on me. Suddenly, he shakes his head as if shrugging off a thought. He stares at the window, although it's too fogged up to see the street outside.

I wait.

Finally, when the silence has stretched out far too long to feel comfortable, he asks, "Why are you doing this- helping me find Bucky?"

I shrug. "I care about him."

"Don't." he says flatly, "Don't tell me that you care about him if you don't mean it. Why don't you tell me the truth?"

I consider my answer carefully. Picking up a sugar cube and crumbling it between my fingers. "When I met you I told you that I was a mercenary," I begin.

"You told me you worked for the highest bidder but I'm not offering you any money."

"Would you?" I ask. "I'm not asking you to, I'm curious. Would you pay to have Sergeant Barnes back?"

At first I think he won't answer. Then, with eyes downcast, he breathes, "All of it. All the money I have."

I can't help it, I laugh. A short burst of air through my nose. "That's a nice sentiment."

The waitress brings my coffee, I mutter a thank you and clasp my cold palms around the cup. Steam rises from it in lazy tendrils. The smell of bitter coffee is strong and comforting.

"You might not be paying me any money, Captain Rogers, but that's not the only currency I work with. I also accept secrets, favours and _'I-owe-you's_. You and I both know that Bucky is worth more than any amount of money or anything else. He's a good man, he's my friend and he's worth saving."

"So what is this? What do I owe you for this?"

"Nothing." I shrug, "I'm paying up for one of my own debts. Barnes and I promised to look out for each other. But I can't save him on my own."

"So you need me to help you save Bucky, which makes me the highest bidder."

"Exactly." I swipe the crumbled sugar cube off the table, sprinkling granules onto the floor of the café.

"I'm sorry about taking your laptop." He says.

"I'm not mad. Although I might have snapped at Black Widow when she asked about it. She doesn't like me very much."

"That's not true," he says a little too quickly.

"It's okay." I say, "She doesn't like me because she thinks I'm hiding something and you think that too. You all do."

He doesn't react and he doesn't have to. If he were to deny it then that would be dishonest and he doesn't do dishonesty very well. Any trust I've earned from him is only due to those words I borrowed from Bucky; _I'm with you_. But you could hardly call that trust, I think that's more the benefit of the doubt. And I _need_ his trust.

"I _am_ hiding something." I say and then I take a deep breath. The next part comes out in a rush. "I'm a cyborg. Part machine. I have a computer inside me, wired into my nervous system."

Steve raises a single eyebrow and shakes his head slightly, "Okay."

"You're not surprised?"

"You're going to have to do better than that if you want to surprise me." He says and I detect a smirk on his lips, "What can you do?"

That sounds like a challenge so let's make this a game. "Ask me a question," I say, "Anything you want to know. You search for it on my laptop and I'll look up here." I say tapping my temple.

"You're on." He looks around for inspiration, his eyes landing on the stickers decorating my computer. Finally he says, "How long does a star live for?"

No hesitation. "Three, two, one, go."

I power down and in a heartbeat, I resurface. "A star's life depends on how big it is, the bigger the star the shorter it's life span, this is because the bigger the star the hotter it burns at its core. Our sun will most likely live for around 10 billion years."

Steve is staring at the screen, the light coming from it reflected in his eyes as he looks at me in wonder. Then he leans back in his chair again, a grin spreading across his face. "That was quick. The internet hasn't even loaded yet."

"To be fair my laptop might actually be older than you."

"Very funny," he says. "So what else can you do?"

"Lots of stuff, the computer is fused with my brain." I smile and for the first time, I like that I'm showing off what I can do. "That's how I hack things."

"From inside your head?"

"Well, I can manually hack into things too, they taught me how to do that as well. But, when I hack things directly using my Cyber Platform I have to power down first. I can't use the platform and be conscious at the same time."

"Is that what happens when you phase out?" he waves a palm in front of his face.

"Sometimes."

He nods, then adds with a frown, "Why didn't you tell me before?"

I shrug, "I didn't know how you would react. Would you have trusted me if I'd told you straight away?"

"Probably not."

"Well then."

Suddenly he leans forward, "New question then, when the star dies what happens next?"

We spend the next few minutes racing each other in search wars. Until my coffee has gone cold and the world beyond the walls is shrouded in darkness. I can see the stars that have been burning for billions of years winking at us through streaks in the condensation on the window. The water runs down the glass; the droplets in a race of their own to be the first to the bottom.

I win our game every time.

When Steve has run out of questions, his eyes wander around the cafe looking for something to prompt the next race, his gaze lands on the open file and the article on MUSA. "I think it's time we figured out why this is so important."

I power down again. _Search: MUSA Antoine Caillier._

 _About 761,000 results in 0.46 seconds._

The various articles, webpages, forums fill my Cyber platform stacking up in a collage of newspaper snap shots and angry comments from social media pages. There are so many that it almost takes my breath away.

 _Stop search._

I feel strange. Like something's not right. I feel fractured. I'm moving slow. My Cyber Platform can't process the volume of content flooding my system I can't make sense of it, any of it. I'm moving _too_ slow.

Frightened, I resurface from my power down.

"You alright?" Steve asks, punching away at the laptop keys slowly.

I just over worked myself. I carelessly spent all my energy in those silly races. I smile breezily, "I'm fine. My search is bringing up so many things it's hard to know where to begin. I was just thinking that the best place to start is probably with what Bucky found, obviously it's important or he wouldn't have printed it off for us to look at."

Captain Rogers pushes the article to my side of the table, his eyes never leaving the computer screen. "It's long, but from what I understand, Antoine Caillier was the head of a company called MUSA Industries which deals in pharmaceuticals and medical equipment."

"A French company?" I ask as I start to skim read the first few paragraphs.

He nods, with his hands hovering over the next letters he was about to type. "It was French. But this guy Caillier rises to the top of the company, then it turns out he's been embezzling thousands and investing in all the wrong places."

"Why is this relevant to us? Or Bucky?" I shrug, "Bosses stealing from their companies happens all the time. So what?"

"That's not the end of it." Steve says, "Caillier was stashing away thousands and it's going unnoticed until he's caught out. By then the company is about to go bankrupt, Caillier resigns and the company is taken over by an American firm."

We're leaning closer now, conspiring together in the corner of the cramped cafe. I wonder for a brief moment how we look to people on the outside.

"What name?" I ask.

Steve types something into the computer but whatever it is I can't see it. He types slowly, index fingers only, checking with each click that what he presses on the keyboard is what appears on the screen. Sometimes it's easy to forget that Steve belongs to a different era. And even easier to forget that Bucky does too, Hydra taught him how to use today's technology, while Steve was left behind. I sympathise. My technology is getting old at the same rate that I do. I've fallen behind too. So no matter how frustrating it is that Steve maybe a little slow hitting those correct keys, I wait quietly.

Finally he flips the screen round to face me.

It a webpage for a company called…

"Siren Pharmaceuticals." I sit back in my chair, stretching my hands up behind my head. Of course.

"You know them?"

"I worked for them."

"When?"

"Last year." I reply, then add before Steve can interject, "Look it's too complicated to explain in full more than once. Sam will be wondering where we are, we've missed dinner and he's probably pissed. We should go back, I'll get my notebook and I'll tell you the whole story in detail. Full detail."

I watch him swallow all of the questions that I can see forming on his lips. He leans forward again, a glint of something in his eyes which I think is excitement. "Does this mean we're getting somewhere?"

Oh god, it's worse. This looks like hope.

"It's possible."

He seems satisfied with this answer, there's hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he says, "Then what are we waiting for?"


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note:

Shout out to my followers- they're may only be a few of you but I see you and I want to say thanks. I will try and publish more often. Any feedback is much appreciated!

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3 months ago- Number Thirty Four, Paris, France.

Squashed between two identical, ordinary houses is Number Thirty-Four. As a stranger just passing by it would be so easy to walk right past it on your way to more exciting things. You have to stop and look a little closer. And then you notice all the things that make Number Thirty Four unusual. No matter what time of day it is, the curtains always remain closed. The door is not on the left side like the neighbouring houses, it's placed squarely in the centre. So that the house resembles a face; a gaping mouth and haunting eyes. The evergreen trees that line the length of the pavement grow straight up towards the daylight, except the tree outside Number Thirty Four. It bends into the road, its trunk contorted. On the side facing the house the tree is bald. As if needles won't grow on that side in order to avoid being poisoned.

People that enter Number Thirty-Four must be invited by the owner. And the only people invited inside, usually have important business to attend to or more likely a toothache to cure.

As we approach the red front door it swings wide open and a breath of warm air greats us in the hallway. The walls are lined with frames; of photos and certificates. We're lead straight through the hallway to a door under the stairs leading to more steps.

A yelping sound drifts up from below. I feel Bucky's steps falter behind me.

There's another noise from the basement. This time it's a moan of pain; long and low and we're lead right to it. A concrete box inside the basement with a steal door, light pours out from the seams around it, a bright burning orange glow.

Inside, a dentist's chair sits proudly in the centre of what looks like a mixture of an office and surgery. In the chair lays a patient with his eyes squeezed shut and trembling fingers clutching the arm rests. The dentist leans over him, a pair of pliers in the patients mouth clamped around a single tooth. In the corner, the patient's companion winces as with one sharp tug the dentist yanks the bloody tooth out. The patients cries out in pain.

Bucky recoils, shrinking back towards the closed steel door.

The dentist examines the tooth, the crown yellowed and riddled with holes. He shakes his head dropping the bone into a bowl on the tray beside him. He turns to the patient and says, "Do you see what happens when you don't look after your teeth Master Gonzales?" Bouchard bellows, his voice rattling my ribcage. "Mr Gonzales if you would like to take your son upstairs, my colleagues will handle your payment now."

The man in the corner - Mr Gonzales - stammers, "Aren't you going to give him something for the pain?"

Bouchard throws his head back, laughs deep and loud, "Mr Gonzales if I was going to give your son something for the pain I would have done it before I started pulling his teeth out." He begins to wipe his pliers clean and says obnoxiously slow, "Besides, it feels much better now doesn't it Master Gonzales? No pain now, teeth good."

The patient gives a half-hearted thumbs up sign and a blood riddled smile.

"He can't even speak his mouth is too swollen." Mr Gonzales argues.

Bucky rubs the back of his neck and flexes the fingers of his left hand restlessly.

"I recommend a bag of frozen peas and a slug of whiskey. And not the piss they try and pass off as whiskey, mind, I mean the expensive stuff." He slaps Mr Gonzales on the back. Gonzales takes his son under the arms and helps him back up the stairs from which we just came.

Bouchard regards me with cold grey eyes and I think for a moment that somehow we've intruded. But the feeling passes as his face contorts into an enormous fat-cat grin. His breath wheezes in and out and in through his fleshy lips. Spreading his arms wide in welcome he says, "Alice. Lovely, Alice." Then his hungry eyes move over to Bucky. "And you must be Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

Bucky does not flinch. His eyes seem glazed over.

"How've you been, Glass?" I ask trying to draw his attention.

"I've been busy, very busy." Bouchard says, and then to my relief adds, "I think that we should take this conversation upstairs."

The dinner table is set with three places only. Bucky and I are left alone for a few moments while Glass retreats to the kitchen to find a specific bottle of rich red wine that he says we _'simply must try'_.

"Are you all right?" I ask Bucky.

He nods solemnly.

Glass returns, opens the bottle and pours three large glasses of liquid that's so dark it's only possible to see it's red and not black when it's held up to the light.

"So, Sergeant Barnes," Bouchard says after taking a sip from his glass, "You are quite the dinner guest. Really, I have so many questions for you, if you don't mind answering them of course?"

Bucky's smile may be forced but he does well to hide it, "I'll answer what I can, Mr Bouchard."

"Ah, so polite, he's so polite isn't he Alice?" Bouchard says, "Please, call me Brian."

Bucky's smile is boyish and shy. If I didn't know him better I'd think it was genuine.

The food is brought out by a man I don't recognise, he sweeps in with steaming plates and disappears once he's been dismissed by Bouchard. New potatoes and steamed vegetables. Lamb stuffed with garlic cloves (so tender it could have been slaughtered this morning and collected from the butcher's mere hours before we arrived.) The finest silver cutlery money can buy and pressed linen napkins laid out on the table.

And all severely out of place.

The dining room is grimy and dated. The wallpaper belongs to the 70's and has certainly seen brighter days. And this is only the beginning, it's just a reflection of the rest of the house. Almost as if by stepping through the front door we travelled back in time. Or fell down the rabbit hole into a new time zone somewhere between the past and the present. Like being somewhere between awake and asleep where dream feel vivid and frightening and real.

Looking around I realise with unease that all the windows have been blacked out by a layer of newspaper and thick curtains. There is no natural light. The house is bathed in an orange glow like I'm looking at the world through a cellophane sweet wrapper.

I catch Bouchard examining me, watching for my reaction as I survey the room. Caught staring, his eyes shift to Bucky. And it takes me a minute to find the right word that describes the way Bouchard looks at him. Bucky, who is more than just polite, he's positively _charming_. Making the right jokes at the right time, laughing, smiling and cringing at the perfect moment. He is the perfect audience.

Smitten, is the word I would use to describe his expression. But Bouchard is not some love sick puppy. He looks at Bucky the way a lion might look at a lamb; the way a he looked at his evening meal when it was set down in front of him.

I'm not the most exciting dinner guest at the table. I miss all the punch lines, every damn time. I don't laugh enough, I don't tell jokes. I lose the plot of the story being told and have to interrupt to ask questions and catch up.

"Look at him Alice," Glass says turning to me suddenly, as a sickly sweet chocolate pudding is served to us, "That's a good American set of teeth you have their James. That's the one thing I miss about the United States, you can say a lot about our American friends and most of it isn't true," Bouchard says eyes fixated on my lips; my fake smile, "but the one thing you can't say is that they don't have good teeth."

"Brain?" Bucky asks with hint of curious innocence in his creased brow. Then he shakes his head as if he has decided against asking his question.

"What is it James?" Glass throws his dirty spoon into his empty bowl and I take this as an invitation to push my dish away, untouched.

"It's nothing," he pauses, waiting for the right moment. "I just - I wondered why they call you Glass Jaw?"

Glass takes up his linen napkin, wipes those fleshy lips but he doesn't seem in the least bit annoyed by the question, "Yes, I thought this might come up. Which story have you been told, Sergeant Barnes? Cyanide pill or blown up by a bomb?"

"Cyanide." Bucky replies.

"That's my personal favourite. Crunching a cyanide pill so I could die for the cause. But sadly, as exciting as it is, it's not the truth." Glass says. He considers Bucky very closely. Then me, capturing my hand in between his own. "I don't know what you heard, but I _was_ working for Hydra in a secret base. There weren't any SHIELD agents involved though, they never even knew we existed. We were working on prosthetics, much like your own." He nods to Bucky's arm, "But not quite. We were looking into the possibility of replacing the spine, the skull and the skeleton with machinery."

I look down at my hand between Bouchard's palms – acutely aware of the bolts that hold my back together. I know this story, I've heard it before. And I could have told Bucky but I didn't because I didn't want to. But also because lies, truths and stories belong to people. This truth belongs to Glass; he should be the one to tell it.

"What happened?" Bucky asks.

Bouchard shrugs, his mouth turning down at the corners, "We got shut down. I don't know what changed but all of a sudden Hydra decided to pull funding. Instead they ploughed everything into harnessing alien technology and supernatural energy rather than the man-made monster."

I try to pull my hand from Bouchard's grip; he only tightens his fingers.

"When you say shut down, what do you mean?" Bucky says leaning forward, elbows on the table.

"I mean to say they ordered our execution, Sergeant Barnes. I took a bullet to my face whilst on my way home from work. Luckily, whoever did it didn't check to see if I was alive. But then a bullet to the head tends to be fatal."

His hands are frozen. Colder than my own, he's crushing my knuckles together, the bones sliding past one another. "So to answer your original question Sergeant Barnes, the bullet ripped straight through my mouth. They nicknamed me Glass Jaw because my jaw bone, my teeth, my gums all shattered on impact."

"Like glass." I chime in.

"That's right. I'm lucky I have my tongue and can still talk to you. It was said that when the paramedics came to my aid, a row of my teeth could be seen on the concrete. I can only talk to you now because…" he knocks on his jaw, a clinking sound rings out, "they really ought to call me metal mouth."

Bucky nods, eyes lowered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Glass waves this away with his hand, finally releasing my hand from his iron grip. "It's not a problem, Sergeant Barnes. A nickname is a nickname and nothing more. I was lucky with mine. It makes me sound pretty threatening don't you think? Much scarier than Brian." Then he changes the subject with a shrug, "I think perhaps it is time that we retired to the lounge, don't you?"

Bucky excuses himself from the table and exits to the lounge. I make to follow. My hand on the open door when Glass grabs the top of my arm firmly. The door jerks from my hand as he yanks me round to face him. Shoving my back against the wood; slamming it shut with my body. There's a twist of pain where the door and the metal in my spine collides.

"Glass what the hell?" I say my voice raised.

He hushes me, the expression he wears is worried. He waits, probably to see if Bucky will notice but I hear no sound from the next room over.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Have you made contact with Hydra recently?" he asks quickly, his eyes searching mine.

"Glass, they think I'm dead, they're not following me." I consider him carefully, "is that why you made us go to the warehouse first? You thought they might be following us? I didn't lead them to you, Brian."

"I know, you didn't."

"Hey Glass," Bucky calls from the other room, "Can I use your bathroom?"

"At the top of the stairs Sergeant Barnes, you absolutely cannot miss it." Glass calls back.

There's a creak as Bucky starts to ascend the stairs.

"No, this is about the other thing you asked me about Alice - about what's causing Barnes' night terrors."

"Did you find out?"

He ignores my question. "There's a man in this city called Doctor Jonah Greggory, he's of interest to you. He has more information about it than I have."

"He's here? In Paris?" I say, scrutinising his expression, "That's a real coincidence Glass. What's he doing here?"

"I sent for him, to bring him to you. I know he has information you need. But if you're going to interrogate him you'll need ammunition. Research him first, Alice, and something called Project Spore –find out what you can, then you'll know what to ask and he'll tell you the rest."

"Thanks Glass." I say with uncertainty; this isn't a favour, he'll demand payment later.

"That's not all." he says leaning closer, so close I think I can hear his breath whistle through his lips as he whispers, "A few weeks back I got a message on an old burner phone I kept from my Hydra days."

"What? Glass, why the hell did you keep it?" I reply furiously. "Why did they even send the message to you?"

"Hydra's not dumb, Alice, they know we're not _all_ dead. They probably sent it out to all contacts, dead or alive or unconfirmed." He clutches my shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft flesh under my arms. His finger nails scraping the latch of my Manual Input Port. "They're recruiting again, Hydra are _re-recruiting_ anyone who's ever worked for them. Apparently they want all the man power they can get, the majority of the organisation went down when SHIELD spilled all the secrets onto the internet. Hydra still exists in the shadows and it's looking to rebuild itself." He talks quickly and I find myself relying on my lip reading ability to keep up, "I wondered if they contacted you too?"

I take a pause to allow my mind to catch up and process his words. I shake my head. "Glass, how do you know this isn't a trap? You seriously fucked them over, don't you think they're just looking for revenge? What if this Doctor Greggory is trying to lure you into their trap?"

"No, not Greggory. He got out before I did, and he's not looking to get back in."

"Are you?" I ask eyebrows raised.

He doesn't answer, but he might as well have.

"Glass, you can't, they hate you. Going back is suicide."

"They're looking to forgive, to rebuild from scratch. Maybe they can make Hydra into what it was supposed to be."

"Which is what exactly? They're Nazis. You got out for a good reason, try to remember what that was." I argue.

"You should consider it, Alice. Your technology is becoming outdated. You're becoming obsolete, if you were to go back they would upgrade you." he says, shaking my upper arms harder like I'm a rag doll. "Think about how powerful you felt when you were upgraded from a mere human to being capable of so much more. Think about what they took from you when you left, think about what they could _give back_."

I consider this. Remembering the frustration that comes with trying to push past the veil inside my mind that separates me from my memories. That 'on the tip of your tongue' uncertainty. I'd be lying if I said that it didn't bother me so the idea of getting it all back, getting beyond that wall, is so very enticing. And even I have noticed how slow my platform is now – it's why I'm here isn't it? I couldn't handle a direct download and now I need surgery to repair the damage.

I consider it in the silence between us. See the excited glint in Bouchard's eyes and shake my head decisively. "Hydra doesn't forgive easily."

"Which is why I need a bargaining chip."

"I won't be your bargaining chip, Glass."

"Not you, _the Asset_." He jerks his chin upwards, "If we brought him back to them, then we would be welcomed back as heroes."

Suddenly, my blood turns to ice. He can't turn in Bucky; it would ruin everything. I shrug his hands off me, "No. I can't stop you from going back to them. But if you go, you go without me or Bucky."

There's a long and painful moment before finally, Bouchard nods in agreement. He let's go of my arms and steps away. "All right, Alice. I'm not decided yet, but if I do go back to them I won't reveal where you are. Or where Sergeant Barnes is for that matter. You have my word."

Bucky calls from out in the hallway, "Hey, Brian. Are you a real dentist? All these certificates say engineer." I hadn't even realised he'd come back down the stairs.

I mouth a silent 'thank you' as Glass slips past me through the door. It swings back on its hinges. Something doesn't seem right. It seems too easy

I can hear them now in the lounge. Bouchard's booming voice that paints him as the extravagant host, "I'm not technically a dentist, Sergeant Barnes. I'm an engineer, but really how hard is it to pull teeth out?"

I can't think. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the tender bridge of my nose; the beginnings of a head ache. I'm so stupid. How could I put Bucky in danger by direct downloading? I could I put him in danger by coming _here_? I've compromised the plan. And I will pay for it, I'll pay for this delay and the repair to the damage _I_ caused in my systems. Now I owe a debt to Bouchard. Both for getting Doctor Greggory here, whoever he is, and for keeping quiet about our whereabouts.

"Alice?" Bucky calls.

"Coming." I say fixing my face into a smile as I enter the dusty living room where the two men are talking by the fireplace about a certificate in a photo frame.

"Ah, there she is. Candy?" Bouchard says. He offers a glass bowl of brightly coloured sweets in my direction; the atmosphere between us feels much less serious. I decline and he puts the bowl down. "I was just saying that it's time that we talked business. I think first off I need to see all the external damage."

I lift the sleeve of my shirt to reveal the burnt out panel. Explaining what happened whilst letting him take my arm in his hands so he can examine it under the light.

"Hmm, I'm not absolutely sure I can fix this, Alice." he says finally. "But I can try, you have to understand though that this operation comes with risks."

"I know." I throw a glance at Bucky who returns a reassuring smile around one of the sweets Bouchard offered him.

Glass claps his hands together suddenly, "Now we really must talk payment."

"What?" My attention snaps to him, "Glass we went over this. You keep the last instalments from the last job that I did for you and-"

"- I _buy_ the parts that we may need to fix you. However, you still need to pay me for the cost of labour."

"It was included in the deal we negotiated. You can't just change the terms of agreement now that we're here, that's not how business works."

"It's how business works with me." Glass shrugs.

I knew it was too easy, but what could he be after this time? My eyes narrow, arms folded I ask him, "All right, how much?"

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"I'm not _willing_ to pay anything."

"Well, I have a suggestion." Glass says.

"Do you?" I raise my eyebrows, sharing an exasperated look with Bucky who frowns back me.

"I'm willing to do the operation, in exchange for a closer look at Sergeant Barnes' arm."

"Done." Bucky says.

I shake my head. "No. Try something else."

"Done." Bucky repeats, "I'll do it. Alice it's my choice."

"Bucky…" I begin to protest and then bite my tongue as he begins to remove his jumper and then his shirt.

I've seen Bucky without a shirt on before, no big deal. But this time, I find that I have to look away. Maybe it's the way that Bouchard inspects the marred skin where metal and flesh meet with such a clinical inspection and delight. It's invasive, unbearable, even shameful.

And I think of all those times that this has happened to Bucky. Times that people marveled at what he had become. I see Bucky's limitless gaze and wonder what he's thinking. Does it bother him anymore? Is it a part of him? Is this the price?

Glass examines Bucky's fingers, the metal glints as Bouchard turns his hand over so it's palm up. "Can you feel that?" he asks.

"I can feel the movement but I can't feel your hands." Bucky says.

"Remarkable." Bouchard mutters more to himself than to us. Then he looks around the room eagerly, his eyes falling on a solid glass swan on the bookshelves, acting as a book end. Barely noticing me he galumphs past on his swollen ankles. He pulls the ornament from the shelves, the books it was holding up topple over. He doesn't seem to care, brandishing the swan in front of Bucky he say, "Take this."

Bucky does so without question.

"Glass?" my voice is wary.

"Now crush it." Bouchard orders.

"Glass?" I repeat but it's like they can't hear me.

I cringe away as Bucky's outstretched metal fist begins to close in on the swan like a python squeezing the life out of its prey. A popping sound splits the silence as the first cracks appear. The swan's neck separates from its body, falling to the floor with a dull clunk. Bucky continues to tighten his fingers around the swan's decapitated body. Bouchard looks on with the same smitten glint in his eyes I witnessed before.

"Watch yourself." Bucky warns.

I close my eyes as the glass shatters. Chunks flying across the room, landing by my feet.

Bouchard makes a delighted 'ah' sound, as if he watching fireworks. Excited by it, he goes in search of something else. Hurrying over to the couch, he pulls a feather from one of the satin covered pillows. "Just hold this, between your thumb and index."

Bucky does.

"Oh my." Bouchard breathes. "That _is_ impressive. The dexterity is incredible, a real marvel of mechanics."

We stare at Bucky's upturned metal palm, until he lowers it and our collective trance is broken. Bucky speaks first, "So, you'll do the operation?"

Glass turns to me, his expression is business like. And claps Bucky on the back as he says excitedly, "Give me six hours. In the meantime you should get some sleep. Make yourselves comfortable, I have a lot of work to do." With a final nod in my direction, he leaves the room muttering under his breath and disappearing down the stairs into the basement.

"You shouldn't have done that." I hiss, now that Glass is gone.

"Why not? It worked." Bucky replies. In the corner of my eye I can see him putting his shirt back on.

"Yes it did." I murmur, "He got exactly what he wanted."

"So did we." He shrugs, "It was completely harmless. You said he would want to look at it and now he has."

But I can't help feeling that something's not right. I think perhaps this is not the payment Glass was looking for.


End file.
